Blood
by mysticlake
Summary: They came home from battling the monsters and battled their own minds. Hotch/Prentiss. Post-ep for season 4 finale "To Hell...And Back".
1. Chapter 1

_Blood will tell, but often it tells too much._

-Don Marquis

_The problem_, she thought sourly, _is that_ _I'm too good at it._

Another sleepless night was in store, and she knew it was due to her incredible ability to compartmentalize. The dark circles would be easy enough to hide (she'd learned the art of concealer application within her first week at the BAU); her mental exhaustion, not so much. Late night TV only made her restless, she couldn't focus enough to read, and paperwork was out of the question. The first few times she had tried to put on some Sigur Rós and lull herself back to sleep, but she found herself picking out cadences and subtle layers to the music that she hadn't noticed before, more wide awake than ever. Now she didn't even bother, refusing to resort to narcotics.

The truth was that she was terrified of what she would see. Sometimes it was a single faded figure in a nightgown that just brushed the floor, pointing an accusing finger at her, and then melting into the shadows with a single scream. On especially bad nights, she saw her team lined up against a wall, as if waiting for the firing squad. It was the blank canvas, and a cloaked, masked figure acted as the grotesque artist, splattering the pristine surface with blood, sticky blood. _So much blood…_

But the absolute worst was the one she dreamed only after the most horrific cases; the one where each of their personal demons came to hunt them down. They were all there in the bullpen, even Hotch, laughing at something. She laughed and laughed and found that she couldn't stop. _Something is coming, something is coming, but I must keep laughing, I must…_And then the door would swing open, a line of unsubs filing in like neat, orderly schoolchildren. _Evil was the teacher._

Henkel stopped before Reid, taunting with needle in hand, before plunging it into the doctor's arm and crumpling him to the floor like a rag doll. She knew it was not the drug, it was something far more sinister, but somehow she could not will her limbs to move…And yes, here were the dogs for JJ, one of Henry's toys clamped between the largest dog's teeth. A screech escaped JJ's lips, and then she was merely a pile of limbs, another victim…She saw Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia die, until only Hotch and herself remained.

The Reaper, George Foyet, was the last to enter. He stopped before Hotch, and she was running, running to save him, but it was not fast enough, it would never be fast enough…Foyet cut him down with one shot, and then she was at Hotch's side, crying, screaming at him to come back, come back. Her hands were covered with his blood…_so much blood_. She turned to Foyet, who still stood above her, knife raised, poised to strike. _Please_, she whispered. _Please do it. Kill me now, kill me, please…I can't live like this. Do it now, please, please, kill me…_

The knife clattered at her feet. Foyet vanished. She sat there, and the only real thing was Hotch's hand in hers, and her shirt soaked with his blood, and the corpses of her team around her.

She woke up screaming.

After the pig farm, the dozens of shoes, after Kelly's ordeal…there was no way that sleep was going to come. She knew Morgan had wound up in the unfamiliar arms of another woman, that Rossi was even now sitting at a bar somewhere, that JJ was holding Henry as tightly as she could. Garcia would watch a Disney movie, perhaps, or go on an all-night shopping spree. Reid would write two letters that would never be mailed. One to his mother and one to Gideon.

And Hotch? She knew he would only want to see Jack, but that it was not his night to have him…He would surely be alone, for that was what he did. She was like him in that. They did not, could not find solace in the company of others. They came home from battling the monsters and battled their own minds.

So when the call came, it was almost a relief, to have something interrupt her insomnia. She was thrilled to hear that it was _his_ voice on the line, and the thrill turned to panic when he gasped that he needed help…that Foyet had been there, waiting for him.

_Hurry, Emily_.

The fear cut into her cleanly, but the pain did not come yet…She was far too good at compartmentalizing for that.

She had grabbed her keys and weapon and was running before she knew what she was doing. Barely coherent, she managed to call EMS as she drove, breaking every speed limit along the way. The door was ajar; a trail of blood droplets led into the apartment. She drew her weapon and prepared to go in.

Foyet's body sprawled just beyond the entrance. _No pulse. It's over._

Finally she allowed her terror to become paramount

"Hotch!" she screamed, sheathing her weapon. He had fallen next to a cart of drinks…blood was all over the floor. _So much blood. _

She knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. Desperately, she tried to find the wound to staunch the bleeding.

"Prentiss," he rasped. "Emily…"

"Shh," she soothed him. "Where are you hit? Please, Hotch, I need to help you!"

He grimaced and gestured to his shoulder. "He didn't…he didn't want to kill me, Emily. He wanted me to suffer. I…I fell to the ground and reached for my ankle holster."

"I know, I know. Please, please stop moving. The paramedics are coming. Stay with me. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you." She grabbed a towel from the drinks cart and held it to his shoulder. His hand scrabbled at hers and she gripped it tightly._ Where the fuck was EMS?_

"Emily…" he slurred. "He's gone. I hit him."

"I know, Hotch, I know. Hotch, you have to stay awake, stay with me. I'm here. Please, Hotch. I'm not leaving you, I'll never leave you. I love you. You're right here with me. You're not alone. Hold on to me." _Everything she wanted to say to him for so long, and now she was saying it here, now, as he bled out all over her. So much blood._

Only then did she realize…this exactly mirrored her nightmares.

Perversely, it was a dream come true.

**A/N: This ends a bit abruptly, but I really wanted to do a post-ep for the finale. I had the idea and went with it. I'm considering expanding this, but for now it's a one-shot. If I take this farther, it would probably be H/P, but I could kill off Hotch and see how Emily/the team deals with that. For now, I'll leave it here. Let me know what you guys think.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable._

- L. Frank Baum

She could only stare as EMS wheeled him away. His blood was streaked all over her, on her hands, her shirt, somehow her face. _So much blood…_He was fragile, breakable on the gurney. She had done everything right – come to Hotch's side, called the paramedics, called the team. But he was still there. She blinked, harder, willing the picture to drift away, floating on the cool evening air like a wisp of smoke.

There was a dull throbbing in her skull, but she fought it back, concentrating on him, willing him to be okay…._Concentrate. Hotch is more important. _

"Ma'am?"

Turning automatically, she saw that one of the medics was addressing her. "Yes. Yes?"

"Ma'am, can I get your name, please?"

"Emily Prentiss. I'm a colleague of Hotch – Aaron Hotchner, at the FBI. Please, can you tell me how he is?" It was a struggle to bury the panic rising on her face. And was the throbbing growing? Or was it her imagination?

"He's…critical. We won't know any more until he's checked out at the hospital. Please, Ms. Prentiss, we need to know what happened here."

_Evil. Evil happened here._

She swallowed, trying to focus on the medic's face. The pounding in her head was reaching fever pitch, and there were faint blotches at the edge of her vision…but this was important_. I have to tell him about Hotch, about the blood…focus, Emily. _"We – George Foyet. He's a serial killer that we – I don't – he –" The blots pulsed in time with the pain, growing, larger, larger, until they eclipsed everything…

"Ma'am!"

And she tumbled to the ground, falling, _falling…_

**********

"Ms. Prentiss, can you hear me?"

_Blurred shapes, weaving in and out…a single shot, and then Hotch fell, and Emily was there with him…staywithme, staywithmepleaseHotch! Iloveyou. _

"Emily! Oh, God…"

_JJ, and the dogs, and Henry…_

"Em, it's Morgan. Honey, I need you to wake up."

Her eyes snapped open, and she instinctively batted out at Morgan, striking him in the face.

"It's Morgan! Calm down, calm down! It's just me. It's me. I'm not going to hurt you!" And his familiar face was next to hers, whispering comforting words. They were all there: Morgan's fathomless eyes inches from her own; JJ, tears rolling down her face; Reid, gawky and distorted in the lights of the one remaining ambulance. By force of habit, she searched for Hotch (stoic, impenetrable – she knew his face and stance better than her own) next to the others.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I thought…what happened?"

"You passed out," the medic said. "Shock. When did you last eat, or sleep?"

She tried to recall, but the knowledge eluded her. "I can't remember. Not since…Canada."

She felt, rather than heard, Morgan's intake of breath as the whoosh of air swished past her face. "Christ! That was over 24 hours ago. You can't do this to yourself, Em."

"Hotch…" she mumbled.

The medic nearly shoved Morgan aside. "Ma'am, we need to get you checked out. Mr. Hotchner is on his way to surgery as we speak."

With great effort, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. The spots danced for a moment in front of her eyes, and then settled. Her mouth was dry, cottony. The metallic taste of blood lingered in the air, permeating her very pores. She knew from experience that it lingered for weeks, coating her skin like sweat. That no matter how hard she scrubbed, she wouldn't be able to wash away the memories.

"Hospital," she said. "Let's go. I don't have time to fuck around with medics."

Tiny frown lines etched themselves into Morgan's glistening face, but he didn't contradict her. Still crouched beside her, he pulled her to her feet and brushed the medic's frantic pleas off.

"She just passed out. She's not going anywhere!"

And now the frown lines disappeared, replaced by the Look. The Look that Hotch had spent years perfecting, in the courtroom and in the BAU. Morgan had learned from the best. "Listen to me, man," he growled. "Our boss is at the hospital. She will get checked out later; I'll see to that. But don't you _dare_ try to tell us what to do right now. Let's go, JJ, Reid. Garcia and Rossi are waiting at the hospital."

Morgan held her up as she staggered to the waiting SUV, stopping her at the passenger side and settling her into the seat. He leaned over her for the briefest of moments and spoke so softly that only the two of them could hear. "Listen to me," he whispered furiously. "I know what this is about. But you can_not_ compromise yourself like that. He doesn't want that. Don't fuck this up, Prentiss, I'm warning you." And with another rush of air, he was gone, running to the driver's side.

The harsh lights of the hospital hit her like a brick. Her only thoughts were of _him_, of finding him and telling him that it was over, that she had come for him and she wasn't leaving him. But instead she was forced to wait in the uncomfortable, stained chairs, to page through old issues of _People_ and _Reader's Digest_. How could the staff think that anyone could focus on the hottest Oscar fashions when someone they loved was on the goddamn table?

Crackers, candy bars, soda, everything available in the vending machines materialized before her. _Eat_, Morgan said. She managed to choke down something, not even caring what it tasted like. _I need something to focus on. My team. My family._

From a profiling perspective, it was the perfect time to study her team's behavior. Reid was pacing back and forth, his hands trembling very slightly on the cup of coffee he clutched. Rossi's mouth was moving infinitesimally, evidently in prayer. JJ was stone-still, gripping Garcia's hand tightly. Morgan leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. _The faint veins snaking across his parchment-smooth eyelids, blood pulsing, driving his heart…each second a little closer to death._

She was trying so, so hard to compartmentalize, but this was something that couldn't be packed neatly into a box and pulled out later for examination. This was _Hotch_, and this mattered far too much to be shunted aside. _I can't do it, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know that you need me to be focused on Foyet now, but I can't do it, Aaron. I can't. _

"Emily. Emily, stop it."

It was Rossi. He reached for her hand, leading her outside. His face was utterly empty, revealing nothing.

"You can't pack this away. Stop it, Emily. I need you to listen to me."

She nodded briefly, concentrating on his face. _The pristine canvas._ _Splattered with blood_.

"Emily, he doesn't know. He has no idea. And if he doesn't make it through this, it will eat you up, how you never told him. How you shut yourself down the night that he died. You owe him this much."

Why was it now that she began to cry? The tears were bitter, bitter with the knowledge that Rossi was absolutely right. "It's so hard," she whispered, swallowing. "I don't know how to love him. I don't know how to love anybody."

Now the furrows – ingrained by years of profiling, by three failed marriages, by time soaked in blood – now the furrows began to appear in his face. "Emily. Don't say that. Never say that."

"It's true."

"Then that will eat you up more than anything. _That_ will kill you quicker than any bullet ever could. Emily, learning to _be_ loved is a hundred times more difficult then learning to love. You have to let someone in. Now, more than ever. _You have to let someone in._"

The words hung there, cold and jagged. Broken glass. And she grabbed them, not caring if they cut her, or how deep.

The blood trickled down her fingers.

**A/N: Oh my. I am really not pleased with this, but my mind wouldn't shake this path. I am pretty positive that everyone is out of character, and the writing feels really awful. The worst part is I have no idea what to do next. None. Leave it here, make this a three-part story, expand it much farther…I am drawing a complete blank. But it is what it is, so review and let me know what you think. mysticlake**


	3. Chapter 3

_Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing what to do is the worst kind of suffering. _– Paulo Coelho

Funny, how hospitals slowed time to a crawl.

The air was thick with waiting, with the things left unsaid between those who waited and the one they waited for. The silence was heavy and pungent. Tangible. If the presence of a loved one was a delicate finger, brushing across a cheek, then the absence of that person, the void left behind, was a slap in the face. A bucket of ice water. The biggest shock in the world, and it left her gasping. Not just physically, either. After all, how could grief breathe? Fear had no heart to keep beating. No one could resuscitate it, or even needed to. It lived on, feeding on hope.

Waiting tasted of salt and sweat and urine, of hot summer days spent trapped in a classroom. Of vomit and gunpowder. It grated, rubbed flesh raw and pink, like sandpaper. Fine. Gritty. It grabbed her and pinned her, wriggling, to the wall. Like a butterfly. She was the insect and it was the scientist. Poking. Prodding.

Rossi's words had left her reeling. _You have to let someone in. Learning to be loved is a hundred times more difficult than learning to love. _What did that even mean? She knew how to be hated, despised; oh, yes, that area had been explored thoroughly in her years at the BAU and her childhood. She could map it in her sleep. She was the master cartographer of that region, because not only had she been there, she had lived there. And fear, she could write pages on that. Novels.

It was the evil she saw every day at the BAU that had transformed love into something foreign. Scores of victims…grieving families…unsubs with evil in their eyes, glinting, cat-like…but never love. Perhaps that was why she loved _him_ so fiercely but so inefficiently. They saw so much darkness that she longed to touch a ribbon of light, even for a moment. Not caring if she was burned in the process. This job took and took from her, and like a fool, she kept offering up shards of her heart. The hate had smashed it like pottery, and she scrambled to pick up the pieces, slicing herself in the process. Bleeding.

"Aaron Hotchner?"

They all rose uniformly. The nurse's face gave nothing away.

"We're with him," Rossi said smoothly. "Please, how is he?"

"It was close. The bullet came very near to his heart. But he's strong, and he's going to be fine."

The air that had vanished from her lungs must have returned as helium, for she was ten times lighter than before. _He's going to live. I get another chance._

The others were euphoric. Morgan's hardened features melted, erasing all the lines as he clasped Rossi's hand. Garcia, sobbing, actually hugged the nurse before embracing JJ and then Reid.

And Emily was rising, borne away on a feather-light rush of relief. Her heart was being reinflated, pumped full of life. _He's alive._

The nurse turned to leave, but Emily reached tentatively to stop her. "When can we see him?"

Smiling knowingly, the nurse said, "He's not ready for visitors yet, but probably with the next couple of hours. I'll let you know as quickly as possible."

"Thank you." A smile, a real one, broke out across Emily's face, and Morgan caught her eye, barely nodding. _Don't fuck this up, Prentiss._

*******

Now the minutes passed quickly, filled with the knowledge that he was going to live. She finally fell asleep on Morgan's shoulder, exhausted from everything that had happened. Two hours passed before she felt JJ's cool hands shaking her awake.

"He's asking for us," the younger woman whispered.

Instantly she was wide awake.

He looked ten years older, lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. Lines creased his forehead, and his face was as serious as she had ever seen it. More than anything, though, he looked _tired_. Absolutely spent.

"Hotch, man, good to see you," Morgan said quietly. He would tread delicately around Hotch, she knew, because of the respect he had for his boss. If their positions were reversed, Hotch would do the same. She remained silent, mostly because the others were there. What she had to say to him was deeply private.

Eventually Rossi cut his eyes at her, wordlessly flashing back to their earlier conversation. "Reid, Morgan, ladies – let's clear out for a bit and give you some air, Aaron. Prentiss, would you stay behind and ask some questions? We need to start piecing this together." _Subtle, Dave._

But they left without comment, and then she was alone with him.

Several moments passed in silence, and she could feel her words suffocating her. The last time they had been alone together, he was gripping her hand and bleeding all over her. _So much blood._ How could she simply jump right into conversation after that?

"You're not here to get my statement, are you." It wasn't a question. His voice was flat and unassuming, devoid of any emotion. It was the same tone he used with serial killers, and this concerned her above all else.

"Hotch. I don't…I came when you called. That's all. And thank God I did." Her voice nearly broke, and she caught herself just in time, horrified that she was losing control like this.

"Prentiss, you did well. I'm alive, thanks to you. You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

"I know that, sir. It's just been pretty tough on all of us – Canada, and now this. I'm trying to keep focused, but it's difficult." _I am not going to cry, dammit._

"Of course. It's to be expected."

The monotony of his voice was absolutely killing her.

"Sir, I want to clarify something…what I said, at your apartment."

"I know what you said." His stare slipped back into place, but there was something lurking just behind his eyes.

She bit down her lip, hard. "Well, then, I want you to know that I would never compromise anything for this job. No matter…no matter what my personal feelings are. It won't affect my work."

"I would expect nothing less. You were holding a dying colleague, Prentiss. That would be upsetting to anyone."

"That's not what I meant. Sir." Now she was angry. _Temper, Emily._

"Then…clarify."

"What do you want me to say, Hotch? You're a profiler! Don't tell me you have no idea what I'm talking about!" Her fury was rising to the surface. She had _saved his life_, she had said that she _loved him_ as he bled out in her arms, and he wouldn't admit that he knew.

His face remained impassive. "Is this really the time, Prentiss?"

"_Bullshit_. Don't give me that! You were just _shot_. I sat in that waiting room for hours, preparing myself for the news that you had died on the table. Do you want to know what I was thinking? I was thinking about how I would tell the team that I was resigning. About what they would think when I stopped calling them, because every time I heard one of their voices, I thought of you. I was wondering _why the_ _fuck_ I had never told you. And they knew, Hotch, they knew. It was written all over my face every time I looked at you. I was screaming it so loudly inside whenever I was near you. But when you were lying on the floor, _soaking my shirt in blood_, I thought that I would never, ever have the chance to say it out loud and that you would only ever know because of the way I looked at you. _That's_ what I was thinking about."

He didn't say a word.

"I waited and waited to tell you, and when I never did, I waited to hear that you had died. I am so fucking sick of _waiting_ for you. So I'm not going to do it anymore."

She left without looking at his face. Afraid of what she would see.

_I don't know how to let him love me. I don't know how to bleed._

**A/N: Okay, I'm feeling much better about this overall. This chapter came much more easily, and I am more confident about it. The only iffy thing was Emily's little rant, but I tried to keep it pretty in-character. And I tried to keep some story threads going, such as Rossi's conversation with Emily at the end of the last chapter. I am having great fun writing this, and I hope you are all enjoying it. Next chapter…I am thinking sometime this weekend? It could be earlier, depending on how my finals go. Please review! mysticlake**


	4. Chapter 4

_But reason has no power against feeling, and feeling older than history is no light matter_. – Charlotte Perkins Gilman

It was very unlike her to explode like that. She regretted it; she really did, but the words were out in the open, and there was nothing she could do to take them back. The words, fresh and clean as water, had been simmering too long, and finally they had boiled over and tumbled out.

God, was he really that dense, though? Everyone had known for months now. At first, it was barely detectable. She herself had not realized at first that she was drawn to him, magnet like, every time they were in the same room. That the frisson of electricity she felt when she touched him was more passion than she had felt in years. The attraction crept up on her slowly, stealthily, until she was completely within its loving grasp and perfectly willing to stay there. And really, the sexual tension was all she had noticed until last night, when she had realized that it had evolved into something far more dangerous, for her and for him. Now the gentle bond tying her to him was a restraint.

She hadn't known what to do with her emotions. They were there; yes, she acknowledged that and even confronted it, but they hung, listless. Like laundry. The Prentisses could never be described as touchy-feely, and she had learned from an early age that any outward sign of unhappiness or discontent was weakness in her mother's eyes. Cool and collected, the ambassador was the ideal diplomat. Removed. Disconnected. Focused only on the job. And Emily was the perfect daughter – ever-pleasant, gracious. The ambassador had molded her daughter into a miniature of herself. Emily had never known any other way of living, and in the beginning, it aided her at the BAU. She could compartmentalize better than anyone else on the team (except for _him_, of course), shutting her emotions off to catch the killers and rapists and sadists that they hunted. She had learned from a pro, after all.

_I don't know how to bleed._

So with the overwhelming, dizzying realization that she was, in fact, in love with him came the equally terrifying notion that she had _no idea what to do about it_. Not a fucking clue. She had spent so much time holding everything in that she had wound up shutting out the people who loved her, as best as she let them. There was a reason she had an excellent poker face: she not only held her cards close, she didn't play them at all.

After her outburst (really, confession), she just needed some air. Air that was not heavy with tension or waiting or that goddamn scent of blood that she could _still_, however faintly, smell. More than anything, though she needed to get away from him and give him time to process. He was in a great deal of pain, and now she had just dealt him another punch.

Unfortunately, Rossi knew her too well. Arms folded, he was lying in wait just beyond the lobby doors.

"How much did you hear?"

"All the juicy bits. Listen, Emily, you did well. I know you feel like shit right now, but I promise, it's a good thing."

"Really?" she snapped. "Because I may very well have just jeopardized my job. I just insulted my boss to his face! And I'm pretty sure that I've royally fucked up this…this relationship, partnership, whatever the hell you want to call it, by spilling my guts. Tell me how that's a good thing."

"It means you're beginning to let go," he said simply. "I've seen it happen too much here. Agents become machines, living and dying for the job, not knowing love or affection or when to let go because they've seen too much hate. Look at Gideon, look at Elle – hell, look at Hotch. Everyone has a breaking point, and you were toeing the line for quite a while there. The danger comes when you don't have that line anymore. You don't know when to step back. But what you just did in there, what you just said to him, you know what that means?"

She stepped backwards, not wanting to listen to his crap anymore, but he caught her wrist and gently pulled her back.

"No, you need to hear this. It means that you _do_ know how to love, Emily. You put yourself out there and made yourself completely vulnerable. Now you have to let him love you. Let him in."

"He won't," she mumbled. "I know he won't. I'm his colleague, not…anything more."

Rossi's flinty eyes locked with her own, and she knew he was profiling her in that instant.

"Then you've seriously underestimated him. I know him better than almost anyone, and I've seen the way he looks at you. This thing is not one-sided, no matter what you might think. In a way, it's very ironic – both of you refuse to let the other in."

His last words were like a punch to the stomach. And suddenly, she was furious again; absolutely outraged that _Rossi _would dare to say this. "You don't know a damn thing, Dave," she hissed. "I'm the only one that he refuses to make any kind of connection with. Why do you think that is? You're his best friend; Morgan's his right-hand man; Reid's his student; he has complete trust in JJ to do her job well; Garcia's the one he turns to when we're in a pinch. I'm…the one he has no idea what to do with. From my first day here, he has been completely on edge with me. Always courteous, always willing to let me do my job, but never, ever _friendly_. Not warm. I'm not sure I could even call us friends."

His face was suddenly blazing, reflecting the anger in her own. "For God's sake, Emily, why do you think that is? He thinks that if he allowed himself to get close to you, he would end up too attached. This man has been holding you at arm's length for so long because he _doesn't know how to do anything else_. He was with one woman for twenty years! The only way he can deal with his feelings and still do his job is to remain distant. Open your eyes. You're as good a profiler as they come. Don't be an idiot." And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the lobby.

She was shaking, positively trembling all over. She had never guessed, never thought it was possible…and that was even _if_ Rossi was right. _How the hell could I have been so stupid?_

**A/N: So some follow up with Rossi and Emily's own thoughts. Let me tell you, it is difficult to write this heavy emotional stuff while listening to Bruce Springsteen. Also, I have some news re: updates – I will be out of town from next Wednesday to about the 19****th**** (a Friday). Now, I should have one (possibly two) more chapters besides this one posted by then, and then I will not be able to update while I'm on vacation. But I will probably try to get some preliminary work done longhand while I'm gone, and when I get back, I will be able to post pretty quickly. Reviews always make the updates come faster, though…mysticlake**


	5. Chapter 5

_The hardest thing to describe is the glaringly evident which everyone had decided not to see._

-Ayn Rand

He was awake. Waiting for her.

She closed the door gently and seated herself by the bed. Case files were scattered haphazardly all around him, with no books or newspapers in sight; the man didn't ever stop working. A half-cleaned tray of food rested on the small table by the IV, evidence of his lessened appetite after surgery. Haley must have come and gone with Jack, because there was a 'World's Greatest Dad' balloon in one corner.

All of this registered briefly with her before she managed to look directly at him. And then the only thing she could see was how _tired_ he looked. Absolutely exhausted. The job was chipping away at him, the man who was normally a statue, grinding him down until he was dust. And then Foyet took up the chisel….It was only a matter of time before the wind blew the powder away. God, it was _killing_ her to see him like this. He had nothing left to give, and still everything – the unsubs, Haley, the team, Strauss – demanded of him.

_The danger comes when you lose that line._

They were bonded now, weirdly, unexpectedly, by what had happened to him, and the knowledge of that was omnipresent in the room. Some kind of god lording over her every action and thought, making her hyperaware of him, even more so than usual. She _knew_ him in a way that the others didn't, and it both thrilled and scared her to have seen him, felt him, on the brink of death. And he had been present for another type of tragedy, hers, one much more deeply personal. His physical pain for her emotional pain, a sick kind of trade. _I'll show you mine if you show me yours. _She had held his battered body as he bled out on her (so much blood), and in return, she had bled for the first time in months. She had shown him the glittering fragments of her glassy, translucent, brittle heart, and mouthed, _Fix me_. But he couldn't. Or wouldn't.

"Prentiss. I spoke with Rossi."

She blanched and tried to hide it immediately. "Sir, I want to apologize for what I said earlier. It was unprofessional and extremely rude."

He held up a hand, stopping her. "Don't apologize. You owe me nothing. And you're right, I knew. About everything. It was unnecessary for Dave to explain, but he did anyway." She winced. _That_ was a conversation she was glad to have missed.

And there it was. All out in the open. The knowledge filled the space between them exactly, neatly. It sliced through the cloudiness in the room and allowed pure, unfiltered agony to slide in as a replacement, cutting Emily to the quick.

"Then you'll understand that I'm handing in my resignation next week," she said quietly, and he did not look surprised.

A sigh ghosted through his lips, and he closed his eyes. "Emily, that's a mistake."

He was right, of course. The BAU was her home, and it would kill her to leave. It was killing her already. But she could not handle being in such proximity to him for much longer. It was slowly poisoning her, seeping toxicity into her very bones ever time she was near him. It was better than any illicit high she had ever experienced, and yet it was tearing her to pieces.

Breathing deeply, she counted to ten before responding. "Sir, I can't do this anymore. It's damaging my objectivity. You told me once that I can't afford to lose that, and I want to get out before the team suffers."

He looked at her, not cruelly, just inquisitively, for the briefest of moments. His face was impassive, and she was already steeling herself for his brusque dismissal: _If you think that's best_, or some version thereof.

So it shocked her to see sudden anger flare in his dark eyes. "Dammit, Emily!" he hissed. "You're the one who's got no fucking clue! I push you away because _I have to_. For me, for you, for the integrity of this team. This isn't what I wanted. But this is the way it has to be. I won't jeopardize either of our careers for this. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I _have to do it_. If we were in any other situation, we would be together. So don't you dare resign because of my actions. _This isn't my fault_."

There was absolute stillness.

"Thank God," she whispered. "Thank God….I thought it was just me…"

He sat up, and in a rare and somewhat startling sign of affection, grasped her hand. "Never. When you came in to the BAU…Haley was gone already. Not formally. But I knew. And then Milwaukee…"

Wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm, she squeezed his hand delicately. "Thank God," she repeated. "I don't want to leave the BAU, Hotch. I never did. I just…"

"I know," he murmured.

She released his hand, returning hers to her lap. They gazed at each other, and she had to force herself not to profile him, instead concentrating on controlling her racing heart. The sheer exhaustion had returned to his face, manifesting itself in new wrinkles and, if possible, even darker shadows under his eyes. Longing to stroke his face, she bit down hard on her lip and blinked rapidly.

"So what now?" she asked finally.

He sighed again. "I don't know. This isn't going to go away, obviously. Neither of us will leave the BAU. Does everyone know, or just Dave?"

"I kind of had the impression that they did," she said, glad to talk about something quasi-mundane. "They're not going to say anything, if that's what you're concerned about. Well, there's nothing to say."

"But there might be. Soon."

Her heart sped at the thought, but she managed to compose herself, ignoring the burst of heat that rushed to her face. "Well. Yes. Look, you need to focus on getting better. We can talk about this later."

"Later," he agreed quickly.

She left the room at nearly a run, her heart still pounding, exalting in her revelation. _He feels it too_! Every rush of air was heady, sending waves of oxygen through her flushed body. Cleansing. Refreshing.

She had never felt more alive.

**A/N: This one's pretty short, but it needed its own chapter. Sorry about the long wait! I actually wound up having to do a bunch of last-minute stuff before I left on vacation, so I never got around to updating. But I've got two more chapters written, and I just have to hammer out some kinks with those. So updates should be fast and furious. I tried to keep them pretty in-character here, but Emily is just so much easier to write than Hotch. I don't know. Anyway, reviews are much appreciated! - mysticlake**


	6. Chapter 6

_If you're going to hold someone down, you're going to have to hold on by the other end of the chain. You are confined by your own repression._

-Toni Morrison

Morgan caught up to her before she had even gone a few paces. She hadn't spoken to him privately since the crime scene, and his anger with her seemed to have evaporated. Wrapping a muscled arm around her shoulders, he squeezed lightly, wordlessly communicating that he was ready to listen if she wanted to talk. She knew that anyway, but was grateful for the support. She leaned against him, still reveling in what had passed between Hotch and herself as they ambled down the hallway to the waiting room, Morgan keeping his arm draped over her. Comforting. Soothing. He was truly a solace for her, someone she trusted unfailingly.

She told him so, and he smiled, his face arranging itself into the familiar laugh lines and creases that she loved so much. "We few, we lucky few," he commented dryly. And then they walked in companionable silence, neither of them feeling the need to fill the easy emptiness with droll words.

They were passing the pediatric ward now, and she saw his eyes dart automatically to the kids that were pushed past them in wheelchairs. The need to check, to ensure that everything was okay – it was something she understood all too well, because it was ingrained in her as well. Any kids that they encountered in their line of work were, generally speaking, _not_ okay, so it was by force of habit that Emily scanned for behaviors that signified trauma. For blood. And most of all, for the wild, panicked eyes. The ones that screamed abuse or violence to her. Those eyes haunted her every night.

"How long have you known?" she said eventually, bringing them back to the subject at hand. Her tone was casual, giving nothing away.

He exhaled slowly, obviously glad to have something to distract him from the kids that surrounded them. "I don't know. It was something that was always just…there. In the background. Wallpaper, really." He chuckled to himself. "The way you looked at each other, how you moved, the way he spoke about you….We're profilers. We're trained to notice human behavior. It was inevitable that we would put it together. And Em, I wanted you to realize. So badly. You have no idea."

She looked at him. There wasn't a trace of his usual teasing on his face, and this sobered her. "Derek, I knew without a doubt that I had feelings for him. I just didn't know that he would…could…reciprocate. So when he called me after Foyet came, I didn't even hesitate. I don't know why it was me; you or Rossi would be the obvious choice. Later I hoped that it was a subconscious choice. But I swear, Derek, the only thing I was thinking was: _I can't lose him. Not like this_." She swiped violently at her eyes.

He stopped walking and pulled her to the side of the hallway before engulfing her in a bear hug. "Em," he whispered against her hair. "Girl, you did everything right. You saved his life. He's not going to forget that. He put his damn life in your hands, and we both know that there are very few people he would trust with that. You're like him in that."

"I know," she sniffled. "I'm just afraid that…that I won't be able to hold him here. That it's not enough that I love him. Haley couldn't hold him; why should I be able to?"

His arms tightened briefly as he absorbed that, and then released her. Sadness mingled with relief on his face, and he looked at her in a way that made her certain that he was profiling her. She didn't share her feelings often, and to say something so deeply personal was unsettling to him, she knew.

It was true, though, what she had said. She loved very few people in her life, but when she did, she loved them fiercely enough to be overwhelming. It swallowed her whole. Consumed her. And yet for those closest to her, it wasn't enough. She gave so fully of herself in blood to the job and her loved ones that there was barely any left for her. When she bled, it left her dry. A drained shell of herself. She was empty, and it drove her loved ones away.

She loved her mother intensely, but had never known the same kind of affection in return. Her few relationships had all ended with the men claiming she was too invested, and yet distant at the same time. Truthfully, she didn't know how to do anything else. She alternately held back completely or poured out every ounce of her strength and passion. All or nothing. And he, Hotch, was much the same way – guarded and cold with outsiders, and very much at ease with those closest to him. She had recognized that in him almost immediately.

Morgan held his gaze until they locked eyes, and he took her hand in his much larger one. "Prentiss, that man would be crazy to let you go. Crazy. Don't you ever think for one second that you are unworthy of love. This job will do that to you. The things we see are things we don't want anyone else to have to experience. He's seen it all, same as you, and Haley couldn't understand that. That's her loss."

His eyes were steady on hers, and the warmth of his hand was delicious on her cool skin. Morgan had always been closer to her than the others, and she knew that he pushed her only because he cared so much. They were connected by the sick desires of the unsubs they hunted, and in a way, they were made better for it. They trusted each other like no one else could do. Even Morgan, a completely private man, had dropped his guard somewhat with the team. In order to do their jobs, they had to be willing to put their lives in each other's hands. And they did, every day. Willing to sever their ties with everything they loved to protect their own. The job took and took in blood, but it gave them unbreakable bonds with each other. When the unsubs threatened their sanity and morals, they found solace in the sick comfort that they suffered together.

So it was only natural that Morgan was there to assure her that she was lovable. Even if she couldn't quite believe it.

When they returned to the waiting room, JJ approached them immediately. She was followed by the rest of the team, and they all formed a tight circle.

"The doctors say he'll be able to go home within a week," said JJ matter-of-factly. "He'll need some help at first, though, and he won't be able to return to work for at least a couple of months." The anxiety had vanished from her face; she must have spent some time with Henry and Will earlier, Emily realized.

"That's great!" exclaimed Garcia, whose face was blotchy from tears. She squeezed JJ's shoulders affectionately. "But I'm sure he'll want to be kicking bad guy ass sooner than that."

Morgan snorted. "Baby girl, he'll be kicking _my_ ass by phone next week, at the latest." They all laughed at that, the tension that had previously pervaded the room gone.

"He's going to need someone to help him," JJ pointed out logically. "Not that he'd ever admit it. Any volunteers?"

"I'd offer, but as my apartment's approximately one thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven square feet, I feel that we would both be a little uncomfortable," offered Reid. "Also, I only have one bed, and while it is queen-sized, I doubt that Hotch would appreciate sharing with me." Rossi's lip twitched.

"I'm out," said Morgan, "and so is Garcia. Our places are too small. Rossi?"

"I'm actually in the process of moving," he replied. "Just bought a new townhouse. So, I don't think I can help."

JJ shrugged helplessly. "Will and Henry. I don't have time to help Hotch too."

Almost robotically, the others swiveled their heads to look collectively at Emily. She stared blankly back at them. "What?"

"You have the room. You get along well with him," said Rossi affably, with just a hint of playfulness in his voice, and the sickening sense that they had all planned this swept over her. "It makes sense."

The unspoken settled in the air, heavy and solid as a brick wall: _And you're in love with each other_.

"I agree," said Garcia unexpectedly. "No, hear me out! Look, you and Boss Man have a thing, yes? Yes. So why wait for him to come back and be awkward around you? It wouldn't be for long, and at least you'll resolve your issues this way." Amazingly, the others were nodding in agreement.

And without warning, she found herself nodding as well.

**A/N: Okay, so follow-up with Morgan and then the discussion with the team. FYI, I find Reid and Garcia nearly impossible to write, so if you don't see a lot of them/entire team scenes, that's why. It's weird, because they're probably the team members with the most distinct personalities, but I cannot get a handle on them. Also, Kavi pointed something out to me about the last chapter. I mentioned that Hotch and Rossi had discussed Hotch's feelings for Emily, but I never wrote that conversation. This story is going to be Emily's third-person POV the whole way, so because she wasn't there, we didn't get that conversation. It's not third-person omniscient.**

**And I want to put a bit of a disclaimer in – Kavi's lovely story "One of Your Own" also involves Hotch and Emily living together for a time after one of them is injured (although in hers it's Emily), and I didn't want you all to think that I was just copying her. Nope, that's just the course that this story took, and I discussed it with her first. Although I will put in a plug for her and say that you should go read that story, because it is wonderful.**

**Review review review!**


	7. Chapter 7

_Misguided angel hangin' over me / Heart like a Gabriel, pure and white as ivory / Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead / Misguided angel, love you 'til I'm dead_

- "Misguided Angel", the Cowboy Junkies

He stared stonily ahead as she helped into the car, being careful not to strain his wound.

"Is that – are you sure you're okay?" she asked tentatively.

"I'm fine. You don't have to do this."

"I know. I just think it's best, as do your doctors." _For the umpteenth time, just get over it._

He didn't reply, merely setting his face into its familiar, rigid mask.

It had been determined at his request that she would take him back to his own apartment and stay with for two weeks, instead of him moving into her condo. After that, she would check on him regularly to see what he needed. His doctors were less than pleased with the arrangement, but there was no way in hell they could change his mind.

Now the awkwardness between them was palpable. They hadn't really spoken since he had confessed to her in the hospital room, and something seemed to have drifted between them in that time. Light, almost indistinguishable, but there nonetheless. A thin, silky thread of a spiderweb, spanning the closeness between them. Nearly insignificant.

But not quite.

Suddenly, she felt she needed to say something, anything. To sweep her hand right through the spiderweb, clearing the path ahead. "Um – do you want music?" Well. Lame. But it was a start.

He jumped slightly, and then glanced at her, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. "Sure. If you like." Perhaps he was humoring her, probably so, but at least he was playing along, albeit reluctantly. They were in the midst of a bizarre tango, making up the steps as they went along, hoping the audience didn't notice.

Taking one hand off the wheel, she punched a few buttons on the CD player. The Cowboy Junkies' _Trinity Session_ played softly in the background, Margo Timmins wailing plaintively about a misguided angel with a heart like Gabriel and a soul like Lucifer. An ironic choice, really. He smiled faintly at her choice of music, and she smirked at him to ease the tension. "You're a Stones guy, aren't you?"

That seemed to crack the façade a little. "To a degree. Jagger can be a little grating. Give me him or Bob Dylan over this stuff any day, though. I don't go for the twangy guitar stuff."

"Bob Dylan?" she repeated in mock horror. "Are you kidding? His voice sounds like he's been chewing on a bag of gravel his entire life."

"I should've known you would be a music elitist. Dylan's culturally relevant! More so than whatever this is."

"And I should've known that you would be unable to appreciate any post-eighties artist. _Dylan_? Really? I hate him. The guy may be a good lyricist, but he can't sing for shit."

They ribbed each other companionably for the rest of the ride, relaxing slightly around each other. Emily was simply glad that he wasn't freezing her out, as he was so prone to doing when it came to personal matters. She hadn't known he liked Dylan, or even music in general – it gave them something to concentrate on besides the attraction between them and his injury. They were at ease with each other in a way that she had never thought possible, and yet somehow she was more on edge. She would've liked nothing more than to reach out and touch him. Put her trembling fingers right over his heart. Leave her prints on his soul where only Haley had before.

But he was broken, still. Jagged. Imperfect. Just like herself. She was terrified of cutting herself, that she might start to bleed and wouldn't be able to stop.

_So much blood_.

Instead, she joked and tried to calm herself down. Neither of them was going anywhere, so they might as well get comfortable. The ride to his apartment wasn't long, and she was pleased to see that he even smiled a few times, showing the dimples that she loved so much. And those cheekbones. God, she had _agonized_ over those cheekbones. Just – fuck, she had to get her mind back on track.

The only truly awkward moment came when they were unloading the trunk of her hybrid. He stretched for the bags and laptop cases out of chivalry and habit, and then winced, reaching for his shoulder and making a valiant attempt to hide the pain. Horrified, she steadied him, and surprisingly, he held on to her for a few seconds, nearly embracing her. It felt – well, it felt _wonderful_, to be so close to him, breathing in his very essence, a heady mix of Old Spice, crisp bleach, and, very faintly, sweat – but no, she had to _focus_.

"Are you okay?" she breathed, hardly daring to speak with her body so close to his.

"I'm fine." _Of course he is_, she thought bitterly, _he always is_. It was his way, to not push off his problems onto anyone else. Or to even admit to having them, although it was blatantly clear that he did and didn't know what to do with them. It angered her so much that he could not bring himself to show any tiny piece of emotion. Not one dirty, cracked portion of himself. And again, it scared her that he thought himself raw enough, dangerous enough, sharp enough to hurt her or anyone who got too close.

He released her (much too soon) and managed to lift both of their laptops against her protests, leaving her to grab only her one duffel bag and his small bag of meds and clothes.

His apartment – she hadn't thought about that. The last time either of them had been there, he was bleeding out onto her. The crime scene techs had come and gone; with the Bureau's declaration that it had been a clean shoot, Hotch had gotten his weapons and badge the previous day and was cleared to return to the BAU after his medical leave. The team would be out of the rotation for at least three weeks, and Emily was tapping into her massive amounts of vacation time to stay with him full-time. Rossi would take over for Hotch in the meantime.

Though the bloodstains had been scrubbed away, they could both sense them. Smell them.

Still, she forced herself to ignore the memory of him slumped like a rag doll on the floor. She concentrated instead on the apartment itself, compartmentalizing, and she knew that he was doing the same. He was a minimalist, of course, with few personal touches scattered among the basic furniture. Pictures of Jack (none of Haley, she couldn't help noticing), a single photo of the team, a couple of Degas prints from the National Gallery of Art. The drinks cart – she tried to ignore that. The bookshelves were well-stocked, which pleased her, although mostly with legal reference books and nonfiction, interspersed with a few volumes of Steinbeck, Chekov, and Faulkner. Clean, simple lines seemed to be what he favored, with very little color. He was a focused, driven man, after all, and the rooms reflected that.

A man she was currently, inextricably (inexplicably) attuned to.

He directed her to the small second bedroom. "There's only one bathroom," he said apologetically. "I never have guests, just Jack." Traces of his son were everywhere: clumsy drawings on the fridge, action figures lying on the table, and pictures of the two of them together, Aaron looking happier than she had ever seen him.

"I'll be fine," she said, trying to placate him. "Now, take one of your pills and go to sleep. You look ready to drop." She was mothering him, but she couldn't help it.

The exhaustion had indeed returned to his eyes, and yet he looked at her with something that she couldn't decipher. It could almost be called…longing, an unshakable yearning for some unnamed object (God forbid it was work). Or person. She didn't flatter herself that it was her; it was probably Jack or even Haley. It was only natural that he would turn to his ex-wife in a situation like this, and he had to be feeling the loss deeply. Still, he badly needed sleep, and that overrode any of her other preoccupations. So she looked deliberately away from him, deftly weaving that spider's thread between them again.

"Thank you, Emily," he murmured, just before leaving for his bedroom, and the use of her first name caught her off guard. "Really."

Her returning smile was tainted with sadness. They were both trying so hard to make this work, she knew. Concentrating on the menial things to ignore what they both could feel. Leaping into their tango midbeat, hoping not to miss a step. Juggling their fragmented hearts with such intensity, not noticing when the harsh edges spilled their blood. Or caring.

And this, above all else, scared her.

**A/N: I'm really, really happy with this. It took about four days to write, but I'm so pleased with the end result. And I love the Cowboy Junkies, particularly that song ("Misguided Angel"), so I was glad that I could work them in to this story. They are obviously both feeling very awkward and unsure at this point, and that's a new experience for both of them. He's hurting but refuses to show it, and that in turn hurts her. They really are trying to make this work from all angles, and that's what I wanted to convey in this chapter. I hope I did it well – let me know with a review!**


	8. Chapter 8

_In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are dying the darkness and we know no death._

--Thomas Wolfe

_She was running, faster than she had ever thought possible. Her feet were weightless, lifting almost as soon as they touched the ground. Sooner. The feeling was positively euphoric, surpassing any other sensation she had ever experienced. Like flying. She was a bird, she realized, stretching her delicate neck and flapping her wings. Nothing could hold her back; she was more powerful and beautiful than anything else. A swan._

_And she was free. Freedom was in the very scent of the air, and it was salty seawater, clean-cut grass, lemonade, the newness of an infant, tangy orange taste in her mouth, late night drinking with the team in a smoky bar; the smell of Old Spice, bleach, and sweat. All at once. It was more wonderful and terrible than she could have dreamed. She wanted to hold it, cupped in her hands like cold, sweet water, trying to keep it from trickling away. But it could not be held; it was not hers to hold. Just as he was not hers to hold, and never would be. Still, she soared and lost herself in the pure, unvarnished freedom._

_Yet suddenly something weighed heavily on her, pulling her down rudely. The ground came ever closer, and the delicious flying sensation vanished. She tried to see what had landed on her, but nothing was there. Only the knowledge that she must keep flying, she could stop for nothing…And then something dark and sticky trickled down her wing, staining the snow-white feathers…ruining them. Making them imperfect. No longer flawless._

_Blood. So much blood._

_A man. A man was lying on her back, motionless. He was gravely injured, that much was obvious, and she wanted to stop, more than anything, but she had to keep flying, it was imperative…He was calling her name, begging for her to stop…she couldn't…_

"Prentiss. Prentiss! Emily!"

Her eyes snapped open to his face, inches away from her own. She very nearly hit him, but managed to control the impulse just in time, breathing heavily from the stress of the dream. _Why the hell is he so close to me? What is he doing, waking me up? Oh, _fuck. _Nightmare._

He was in absolutely agony, pain registering across every single one of his finely chiseled features. His shoulder was _killing_ him, that much she could see. Without thinking, her breath still coming in gasps, she caressed his face, ensuring that he was real. Tangible. Not the Aaron of her dream. Whole. That it was merely a nightmare. Seeking to soothe his pain, she struggled to slow her breathing.

He did not move.

"Are you okay?" she whispered after what seemed like ages.

He exhaled, blowing toothpaste-scented air across her face. "You were screaming. How bad was it?"

She avoided his eyes. "No worse than usual. You look like you're in a lot of pain, Hotch. Go back to bed. I'll help you." There was no way he would agree to that, but it was worth a try.

Now he was the one who looked elsewhere. "I've gotten plenty of sleep. I'll stay up." The truth was hidden in his face, though, and by now, she read him like a book.

"You don't want to depend on the pills." Her guess was confirmed by the guilt in his eyes. Guilt that _she_ was having nightmares, instead of _him_. Because of him. Which was seriously twisted. He moved away from her finally, sitting on the foot of the bed.

"Look, Hotch, I'm pretty hypocritical for saying this, but you have to sleep. You're obviously hurting, and you're never going to heal if you stay awake. The pills put you to sleep, right?" She didn't wait for an answer, but instead plowed ahead. "So _take one_. I won't think any less of you for it. Believe me, if anyone knows about what a bitch insomnia can be, it's me, sir." It felt odd to add the 'sir,' but she didn't want to seem _too_ impertinent.

It was as though he hadn't heard her. "You had a nightmare."

"Well…yes." _Damn._

"So I'll stay here with you. I'll sleep, but I'll be here if you need…help. With the nightmares." He said it as if nothing could be simpler.

Now, _this_ took her aback. "Sir, I'm not sure that's a good idea." She was most definitely not opposed to the idea, but her supervisor-subordinate alarm bell was going off in a big way.

"Prentiss, it's the best solution. Neither of us should stay up all night. We both need someone else around." He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as well as her.

This was a very dangerous idea, she knew. There was mutual attraction between them, and sharing a room, much less a bed, would only magnify that. There would be hell to pay if anyone found out, particularly the team or Strauss. It would mean, basically, sleeping with her boss, even though _sleeping_ was all they would theoretically be doing.

And yet she desperately wanted to do it.

"Okay."

************

They wound up in his room, mostly because the bed was queen-sized. After a great deal of stalling, he finally took his pill and was asleep, thankfully, within minutes. Of course, she remained wide awake, staring at his dark form lying prone next to her. Even with the pain medication, he slept restlessly, kicking off the blankets and pulling them back on again. His shoulder was evidently hurting him, and she knew from her own previous injuries that he was struggling to find a position that would pain him the least. When Cyrus had left her battered and bruised, she had been unable to sleep on her side for at least a few weeks. _Well, I wasn't doing much sleeping then, anyway. Or now._

In a way, it was calming to watch him toss and turn, to know that he wanted _her_ by his side if he needed help. Eventually, he relaxed and managed to fall deeply asleep. It was a fascinating transformation: He became still, and the lines began to vanish from his face. A small smile, barely discernable, crossed her face. She loved him like this, innocent, untouched by insanity and derangement. He was absolutely himself, with no walls thrown up between him and the world. He didn't have to hide from his own mind. He was – well, beautiful. There was no other word for it.

_I wish he looked like this all the time. I wish he looked at me this way._

Embarrassingly, she began to cry, very softly. She didn't cry easily, never had, and she wiped the tears away, furious that she had lost control. _I'm crying over a man who is in the same bed as me, one foot away. I'm going to stay with him for two weeks, I see him every day at work, and we've seen each other at our best and worst. He's more of a presence in my life than my parents. And I'm fucking crying. _She was completely fucked if he woke up and heard her, so she rolled over to turn away from him, not wanting to see his face anymore.

Even so, it took her hours to fall asleep, and when she woke up briefly at five in the morning, the time she usually got up for her run, she found that somehow she had rolled back over, and was gently mirroring his body positioning, only inches away from his back. Almost hugging him. They fit so _perfectly_ together. She tried to imagine herself falling asleep like this every night, wrapped around his body. Or better yet, his body enveloping hers. Safe in his welcoming arms. The illusion was more realistic than she wanted it to be. It felt so…so _right_. Like coming home.

And the tears began to fall again.

**A/N: This one didn't come to me as easily, and I am not sure how I feel about it. But I have done zilch on the next chapter, so it will take me a few days to get that posted. Review!**


	9. Chapter 9

_Perhaps they were right in putting love into books... Perhaps it could not live anywhere else__._

--William Faulkner

Cooking. Now _that_ was scarier than most of the unsubs they came across.

Truthfully, she had never really learned to cook. As a diplomat's child, she had been fed by a family-employed cook throughout her childhood, and her schedule at the BAU was so erratic that she relied on takeout and food that didn't need preparation, like fruit. The kitchen was an area that she did not venture into very often because she knew that the results would be disastrous.

But she knew that Hotch had grown up in the South and was probably used to three home-cooked squares a day, especially after all of his years of marriage to Haley. He needed to get his strength back, too, after surgery and a week of hospital food, and the best way to do that was by eating wholesome, healthy meals. Which she had no idea how to prepare.

_Cereal it is_.

The fact of the matter was that she was simply not used to living with another person and taking care of them. She herself had been looked after carefully, albeit not parentally, for the first eighteen years of her life. After college and her years of law enforcement, she was used to providing for herself, but only herself. She mothered her younger teammates, but she certainly didn't provide for their every need. And this was Hotch – a man who prided himself on being independent and was not exactly thrilled to need help, not matter what his feelings for her were. Adding the complexity of the emotions between them only complicated things further. Hell, there mere sight of him _sleeping_ next to her had made her cry. She wasn't sure that she could handle two weeks of living in that environment. If the shit hit the fan, it could damage things between them forever.

He had just staggered into the kitchen, though, so she had to get it together. "Good morning. Do you want some coffee?" Coffee, at least, she could make. That particular skill was pretty much required for BAU agents.

Accepting the proffered mug, he sat at the table, where she had put out the cereal boxes from the pantry. "Thanks. How did you sleep?" he asked, his voice still husky from waking up. His hair was rumpled, too, and it was possibly turning her on just the tiniest bit to see him like that. Maybe.

"Fine," she lied, retrieving the milk from the refrigerator. "No more nightmares, so that's something, at least. Is cereal okay with you? I can make something, if you like." _Please, please, no_.

"No, no, this is good. Sit down. Please."

She complied, but only after filling his bowl halfway with milk so he would only have to pour in the cereal, which he could do one-handed. That earned her a slight frown, but he let it go, apparently not in the mood to be belligerent quite so soon.

There was a half-hearted attempt at conversation on his part, but neither of them was really up for it. Inexplicably, she felt nervous, jumpy. Her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on her jeans, the stickiness rubbing uncomfortably past the denim. It felt horribly like his blood had on her hands, and she stopped quickly, not wanting to be reminded of that. Breakfast didn't last long, thankfully, and she only managed to choke down a banana, her nerves getting the better of her appetite. He wanted to help her clear the table, but she waved him off, telling him that she had it. There was rather a lot of venom in his look after that, but again, he didn't comment on it and went upstairs to shower.

Once he was gone, she relaxed a bit. Cleaning was something she could do, and as a neatnik with something of an obsessive-compulsive streak, she did quite a bit of it in her free hours. So once she had washed the few breakfast dishes and put away the cereal boxes, she decided that she might as well wipe down the counters and the table. Of course, after she had dried the bowls and glasses and put them away, the state of disarray in his cabinets couldn't be ignored, and all of his dishes _had_ to be taken out, organized, stacked neatly, and put back in.

The grime on his floor was fairly disgusting, so she went hunting for a mop. She was just about to call up the stairs to ask him where it was when she heard the crash.

"_Jesus fucking Christ_!"

She was moving before she could think. The stairs were easy, a few light bounds, and then she burst through his bedroom door, where he was writhing, shirtless, on the floor in pain, clutching his shoulder. Some part of her mind dimly realized that _damn_, he was very nicely built, but she banished that thought immediately.

"Oh my God. Hotch, what the hell happened?" She knelt beside him, trying to stop him from injuring himself further as he rolled around in anguish. Her hands probed gently at the wound to see if he was bleeding, but he batted at them with his good arm, and she backed off, startled.

"Don't, Prentiss!" he barked, clenching his teeth. "Leave it! _Fuck_!"

"Please, I'm trying to help!" she pleaded. "Lie still! What did you do?"

"Nothing!" He was actually shouting at her. "Goddamn it, get the _fuck_ away from me! Just stop!"

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she released him and stood, unable to comprehend why he was acting this way. He remained on the floor, finally lying still. She looked away from him, ashamed that he had yelled at her like that. A pile of shirts on the top shelf of his closet were disturbed, and she guessed that he had unthinkingly reached from them with his injured shoulder and had collapsed from the pain.

"Hotch, please let me help you," she said at last, looking back at him and keeping her voice steady.

He closed his eyes, still in agony. "Leave now. I'm fucking fine! I've got it."

Every fiber of her body was aching to go to him and help, but she managed to fight the impulse, biting the inside of her cheek and locking her muscles. _You're not fine_! she wanted to scream. But it would do no good to tell him that.

"Leave," he said again, more quietly. "Just…leave now, Prentiss."

Battling tears, she did so and closed the door behind her. Once in the hallway, she slid down the wall to a sitting position and sobbed silently. Why couldn't he let her help? Was he really so stubborn that he refused to let _her_, the person he supposedly loved, help him in his moment of weakness? Was it pride, or – or an alpha male thing, or was he intentionally pushing her away, not wanting to be anything more than colleagues? He was locking himself inside the little house he had built around his emotions and throwing away the key, pretending not to hear her banging desperately on the door. _Let me in, please, please, just let me in_. It sickened her that he couldn't trust her enough to see him like that. He was building the walls of his house thicker and thicker, and soon no one would be able to get through to him. He would be completely alone, shut off from the world. Wouldn't even hear his loved ones trying to get through to him. _Is that what you want, Aaron_? _Could anyone ever live like that_? _How quickly will it break you forever_?

Rossi was absolutely right – the job was slowly eating him alive, and there would be a point where he would lose his line between right and wrong. _You're losing it, Hotch, and it's killing me to watch you lose yourself in the process. When will I lose _you? _That will break me. I love you, but I can't do this. Not if it hurts this much. _He was bleeding, and she bled with him. If he thought that Foyet had failed in killing him, well, he was wrong. Foyet didn't even need to try. He was already a dying man, alone in his dark house, and one bullet didn't make a difference: It was simply the catalyst. The emotional gun was already loaded; all Foyet had to do was pull the trigger. And Emily had a horrible feeling that, increasingly, he felt her finger had been on that trigger as well. She had pulled it much later, though – in the hospital room, with her confession. Or even as he was bleeding in her arms, with her whispered _Don'tleaveme _and_ Iloveyou_.

_Isn't that what love is, though_? _I hurt when you hurt_. _And it hurts so _much, _you and me both_. _You have to listen to Rossi. You need to learn to love and be loved in return._

But if this was what loving him meant, then she couldn't do it.

**A/N: This chapter was originally planned very differently. The first half is still the same, with breakfast, but the second half kind of crept up on me. Anyway, not sure how good it is, but I'm sure you'll let me know with a lovely review! And this was written quite a bit faster than I expected – I had nothing written when I posted Chapter 8, but I managed to get this out quickly. Chapter 10 should be up within a few days. **


	10. Chapter 10

_We know the truth, not only by the reason, but also by the heart._

--Blaise Pascal

Her original plan, after she collected herself, was to lie in wait in the hallway and ambush him when he came out. However, when he didn't appear for nearly an hour, most of her anger had already dissolved into a sort of resigned unhappiness that she couldn't do a damn thing right with him. Melancholy settled over her like a rain cloud, and then the guilt wormed its familiar way into her stomach. If only she hadn't pushed him or been so insistent at breakfast. Living with him and his personality wouldn't be easy in the best of circumstances, but now that he was shutting himself off totally from her, it made things ever more difficult and heartbreaking. She wanted to be with him romantically, yes, but she also wanted to see him be _happy_, and that took priority over any other of her desires. And happy was not part of the Aaron Hotchner vernacular at the moment.

Solid advice was what she needed, and not from JJ or Garcia. They loved and respected Hotch and would be sympathetic towards her plight, but she didn't feel comfortable talking about him in a romantic sense with them: He was their boss, after all, not their romantic interest. Ditto for Morgan (Hotch was _definitely _not his romantic interest, and she'd be flogged for even suggesting it). Reid…well, she wasn't sure if he even _had _a love life, and any advice from him was best taken with a grain of salt. He'd probably toss off some statistic about PTSD and relationships. While Rossi was not exactly the poster child for happiness, much less healthy relationships, he knew Hotch better than almost anyone. So she went downstairs and punched Dave's number into her phone. He answered on the first ring – the bastard had probably been waiting for her to call.

"Rossi."

"It's Prentiss."

"Dumping him already? Well, you've come to the pro."

"Ha ha. Dave, be serious. He's a mess right now. Won't even talk to me. I don't know what to do. He already overexerted himself, big surprise, and when I tried to help him, he told me to, quote, get the fuck away."

"Ouch."

"It's awful. I've never seen him like this. I –" Her voice caught, and she covered the unintentional display of emotion by coughing.

Of course, he didn't buy it for a second. "I'm calling big-time bullshit on this one, Prentiss. You want to talk about being a mess? Take a look in the mirror. You're worried that he's going to revert back to the hardass, stone-cold Hotch. Go tell him you're not going to take his crap anymore. Be an adult, be a goddamn FBI agent. Don't get me to do it for you."

"He _listens_ to you, though."

"Sure, but I'm not the one he's in love with. Emily, this case has been chewing him up from the beginning. He was a wreck in Boston. It's not you. You didn't see him after that call from Foyet and what happened on that bus….I had to calm him down enough just to function, much less compartmentalize and work the case. This has nothing to do with your actions. He's fucked up inside, and you are the last person he wants to see him like that. He doesn't do that to his loved ones if he can help it. It's in his nature to blame himself for what happened, and he doesn't want to soil what he views as your undamaged mind with that guilt."

"But I'm not undamaged!" she protested. "None of us are. How could we be?"

"That's the other thing. He's somehow warped it in his mind that he's putting us all through this. Destroying our minds."

"No!" she cried, too loudly. "God, tell me that's not true."

How could he think that? The job was far from easy, but she wouldn't choose to do anything else. They went out every day knowing that this could be the one that would break them, that they could take a bullet or a knife on this one and be dead within minutes. And they chose to go. He didn't push them out the door, forcing them to face their deaths. They went because it was what they did and who they were, and for all of them, those two things were bonds tighter than blood. This team _lived _for what they did, him more than any of them. He _embodied _this job. He _was _this job. They went so that the others, Jack and Henry and all the kids they came across, wouldn't have to ever know what they knew. They went not for fame or glamour or glory or good bar stories or to prove themselves, but for the one less family that would grieve. The one girl who would walk down the aisle with her father on her wedding day, instead of lying in a crude, hastily-dug grave in a forest. The one prostitute who wouldn't be found in an alley the next morning, raped, mutilated, blood congealing like frozen red tears from her wounds. The one child who could play safely in his front yard.

For Kelly. For Jane. For Rebecca. For Sarah. For Gideon. For Elle. For themselves. For all the victims and all the survivors and all the families. For the nameless ones, the Jane and John Does, the ones whose eyes appeared in her dreams night after night, staring unseeingly into the very depths of her soul. For the ones who suffered quietly – the abused child, the grown man who witnessed his mother's murder and relived it every night, the girl who never told about her rapist. They went, and they paid the debt for it, but the debt was worth it. They atoned for the sins of others. And they would never be able to spill enough of their own blood, emotionally, to atone for all the literal blood the unsubs spilled.

But they went anyway. Not because Hotch needed them to, but because _they _needed to in order to live with themselves at the end of the day. He knew that.

Didn't he?

She hung up after exchanging brief goodbyes with Rossi, disturbed by the dark turn the conversation had taken. Was _that_ why Hotch refused to let her help him? He believed she was untouched by the job, and he didn't want to ruin that? Well, if that was the case, he was sorely mistaken.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, startling her. He didn't look at her as he entered the kitchen and went straight to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water one-handed. Somehow he had managed to pull on a shirt. Her anger had returned after her talk with Rossi, and it bubbled just under her skin, threatening to boil over. She kept her tongue in check, though, not wanting to antagonize him further. _I should apologize._

"I'm sorry, Hotch. I shouldn't have been so forward. I didn't mean to push you like that." His lip twitched ever so slightly, but she caught it, thanks to her profiling skills. So she was forgiven, at least somewhat, judging by his expression and movements.

"Prentiss. It's my fault. I don't cope well with pain, apparently."

She pursed her lips. _Or your emotions_. "Did you take a pill?"

"No." _Of course_. "I took two yesterday. I'll be fine."

_No, you're not fucking fine. You're messed up, and you won't let anyone help you. You don't listen to me, you don't listen to Rossi, you don't listen to anyone, not even your subconscious. You're screaming out for help and you don't even know it. You miss your son and you don't know what to do with me and you're sad, scared, confused, furious, all at once. It hurts inside and out, but there's no pill you can take for your emotions, is there? You have to face them. But you're unwilling to do that. You blame yourself for the Foyet fuckup and for how many ways this team is hurting. Each of us differently, but the pain is the one common thread. We don't know what to say or do around you, and I think you feel the same way around us. I've cried my fair share of tears over this team and this case and over you, especially over you. And you haven't shed any. Where's the justice in that, Aaron? I love you. I want to help you. You're bleeding, and I want to stitch you up._

"Sounds good," she said.

She would confront him soon. And he would not be able to hide this time.

**A/N: Two updates in one day! My muse must love you guys a lot. This chapter was kind of Emily's rationalization for why she feels what she feels about her job and about Hotch. And I think, despite what she feels, she understands Hotch very well. Moreover, she understands **_**why**_** he's breaking down. That is really the building block of the quasi-relationship they have going. I promise that things will begin to heat up between them soon, romantically speaking. Review!**


	11. Chapter 11

Love of mine, someday you will die / But I'll be close behind / I'll follow you into the dark / No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white / Just our hands clasped so tight / Waiting for the hint of a spark

--" I Will Follow You into the Dark", Death Cab for Cutie

Timing was critical. He didn't take confrontation well anyway, but she'd noticed that he was surlier in the middle of the day, when they would normally be at the office. Moodier. Keeping things upbeat, distracting him, usually helped somewhat. She tried to put on some mellow music while they worked on paperwork – Velvet Underground, maybe, or Elliott Smith. They typically worked until about mid-afternoon, and then she puttered around the house while he napped until dinnertime. Even though they were both technically on leave, he was adamant that they get some work done every day. _Damn workaholic_. Actually, she didn't mind too much: It kept them busy for a good chunk of the day, and it gave her time to think about what she was going to say to him when the moment came. And the team was forever calling to check in on them, Garcia at least three times a day. Morgan kept dropping subtle hints about their sex lives (although she hadn't slept in Hotch's bed since that first night, and besides, Morgan didn't even know about that).

She knew that the only person Aaron really wanted to see was his son. Jack wouldn't be able to visit for another week because Hotch was still recovering and wasn't equipped to handle a rambunctious little boy yet. Secretly, _she_ was dying to see Jack as well, if only because it would cheer her withdrawn housemate up. And if the kid looked anything like his dad, he was sure to be damn cute.

The days passed slowly. Sluggishly. They trudged on single file, wearily, each one stretching longer than the previous one. All she wanted was one opening. A single instant when his guard was down and he was somewhat approachable. They were cordial to each other, of course. Assisting with paperwork, pouring coffee for each other, greeting the other politely in the morning. It felt like a mask, really, for the hidden sexual tension that lay in wait underneath. Her feelings for him had not diminished one iota; if anything, they had increased exponentially after she had seen what physical and emotional pain he was in. She felt fairly confident that the same was true for him. It was in the little things – his hand absentmindedly brushing hers as they worked; his quick, constant glances at her; the way he seemed to _wait_ for her at all hours. Not wanting her to be alone. And more than anything, his unwillingness to let her see him in pain. It sounded contradictory, but Rossi's explanation for it fit perfectly: Hotch really seemed to not want her to see him at his weakest. It hurt her, but she could understand it because she was the same way.

If her rocky start at the BAU had taught her one thing, it was that trust had to be earned. Especially Aaron Hotchner's. Evidently, she was not completely there with him yet, and amazingly, that was okay with her. She loved him, he loved her, and they didn't quite know how to proceed from there. That was fine (their favorite word). She was giving him space to lick his wounds, and when the time was right, she would say the words to him that were even now building up inside of her. Show him that she was ready and willing to be loved by him, and ask him to do the same. If he wasn't ready yet, she could wait. God knows that she had waited for him long enough; a little longer wouldn't kill her.

Except – well, she just couldn't seem to find the right time. Jumping right into it at breakfast was pretty unfair to him, and he was so exhausted at night that she didn't want to have a long, introspective conversation with him when he was practically dozing off right there at the table. Injuries were very tiring, as she knew from experience, and he slept a great deal. Often she would look and see him conked out over his paperwork.

Her chance finally came after one of her early-morning runs. She slipped in the house quietly, dripping sweat, only to find him up unusually early – it was just six – and sitting at the kitchen table, looking anxious and pensive. He was still wearing his sweats and a faded Nirvana _Nevermind _t-shirt, instead of the jeans and collared shirts he customarily wore around the house. Maybe he had a casual side after all.

"Hey, you. You're up early," she said casually, pouring herself a glass of water and feeling slightly uncomfortable that she was only wearing skimpy running shorts, a sports bra, and a racerback tank top.

"You were gone," he stated baldly, "and you left your phone. I was worried."

"I thought you knew that I run in the mornings. Anyway, I'm pretty capable of handling anything that I might come across. How did you even know I was gone?" He had taken a pill the night before (or so he said, and knowing him, it probably wasn't true), and that tended to knock him out for a solid ten hours.

Tracing a finger around the rim of his coffee cup, he paused before responding and grimaced. "I poke my head in your room a couple of times a night. It's something I do with Jack. Paranoia, I guess."

She frowned. So he checked on her every night? That was mildly disturbing…and very sweet. Truth be told, she had actually been sleeping fairly soundly ever since…well, the night she had slept in his bed. The nightmares still came, naturally, but less frequently. And they were murkier, too – none of the vivid stuff that was so real, she woke up screaming. "I don't think it's paranoid. He's your son; that's what parents do." _Most parents_. "Though my weapon's right across the room, Hotch. You don't need to do that." Technically, it was on her nightstand, but he didn't have to know that.

"Still, just leave a note before you go, please. I could do without fearing for the life of someone I care about for awhile."

That brought a grin to her face. His dry humor seemed to be returning. "Fair enough."

"I'll let you go and shower, then." He stood to leave, reaching unconsciously for his shoulder. It was fortunate, really, that she had caught him in a somewhat jovial mood, and that he hadn't chewed her out too much for leaving…and that he was being so candid with her…

Well, as long as they were being honest with each other…

"Hotch, wait. Sit down for a second."

He obliged, but gave her a look that managed to be puzzled and dirty at the same time.

Pushing her dark hair out of her eyes, she caught his gaze, trying to express that what she was about to say was important. "I know I'm pretty nervous about this whole situation we have here, and I can tell you are as well. It would be awkward anyway, but there's this whole added…layer. Whatever happens, I don't want this to come between us or the team. That would hurt the BAU, and I know that's the last thing either of us wants. If we start a…a…relationship, okay, fine, great. But if we don't, we absolutely cannot damage our working relationship. _That_ would be disastrous."

_So far, so good_. He wasn't jumping out of his chair and dashing for the door, anyway. Not that he could do much jumping or dashing with the state of his shoulder, but still. They were having an adult conversation about their feelings, and that was a big leap for him. In fact, he seemed to be mulling seriously over what she had said. At last, he spoke:

"You're right; I don't want this to affect our work performance. But I also don't want to have solely a work relationship with you."

She looked up cautiously, hardly daring to breath. _Is he serious_?

"I have trust issues," he confessed, and she fought a smile at that. _Thank you, Captain Obvious_. "I'm difficult to get along with, and I rarely talk about my intimate thoughts. I'm an asshole sometimes. A lot of the time. I'm stubborn, I don't play well with others, I tend to withdraw into myself. Jack's usually the only one who can make me laugh. I intimidate people. But…none of that seems to bother you. I'm glad it doesn't." He looked at her directly, his voice gentle and soft, but rich with passion and the importance of his words. His eyes seemed to be saying, _Listen. I'm ready. _

_Oh boy. _

She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head of the wild thoughts racing through it. Even in her most lurid daydreams, she had never imagined that he would say such things. It was bizarre that they were having _this_ conversation now, at six in the morning in his kitchen, he in his pajamas; she sweaty and desperately in need of a shower. All of that only added to her giddiness. She wanted to turn cartwheels, light sparklers, shout it from the rooftops: _Aaron Hotchner has a heart_! _And I think it belongs to me_. But she had to be sure.

"You're right, it doesn't bother me. I'm pretty fucked up, too, buddy, so don't think you're alone in that." He flashed her a smile, showing those dimples of his. _Oh boy_. "Aaron, I was drawn to you from the beginning. You're a vibrant, complex, conflicted person, and I like that. You try so hard to hide yourself, but I can see right through all of that. I do it too. Why do you think I can compartmentalize so well? It breaks my heart to know that you're in pain. Christ, Aaron, when you called me…" The tears were well on their way, but she couldn't help it. "I was so scared that I would never have a chance with you because you _wanted_ to die. My first thought was suicide. I remember saying to myself, _What if he takes himself away from me because he can't deal with it_? _I'll never know what we could've had_. And the first day, when you screamed at me…I saw how much pain you were in, and I grieved right along with you. But thank God I did, because I made up my mind to confront you, and that's what I did."

He grasped her hand tightly, running his fingers all over her knuckles and sending tiny jolts of electricity through her body. "Don't cry," he murmured. "Please. I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am that I scared you, but I _can_ tell you that you're here, and I'm here, and I am going to try to let you in. Is that what you want?"

Her face crumpled, and she nodded, squeezing his hand as the tears flowed freely. "That's all I ever wanted, Aaron."

And she thought that she would like to sit there with him for the rest of the day, holding his hand, not saying anything, and it would be beautiful. It would be perfect. No blood, real or otherwise, could ever, ever stain this glorious morning, her there with him, drinking in the sight of his face, feeling his hand in hers (strong, warm, comforting), and knowing that they were beginning to heal.

**A/N: Okay, I suck at writing fluff. But yay! They reconciled, and things will be happier from now on, I promise. Let me know what you think with a lovely review. And Chapter 12…well, nothing's written yet, but I've been on a roll recently, so who knows? I will say within a day. Or two. Or three. **

**And the quote…I love that song, and I think that it's especially appropriate for Emily and Hotch. I was at a recent DCFC concert, and when Ben Gibbard played it, every time he sang, "I'll follow you into the dark," I was thinking, **_**That's **_**exactly**_** what Hotch and Emily would do for each other**_**. Cheesy, yes, but appropriate. Plus, the image of their hands "clasped so tight" fit pretty well with this chapter.**


	12. Chapter 12

_Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you._

--Nathaniel Hawthorne

What they had now was a tentative, shaky understanding that they were ready to move beyond friendship. Their relationship was still new; a toddler that was learning to walk on unsteady legs, falling occasionally. The pain was necessary for them to learn to love each other. He was still hermit-like much of the time, partially because of the pain, but more intimate as well – a hand on the small of her back as they moved around the kitchen, perhaps, or doodling aimlessly on her palm as she leaned against him when they watched TV in the evening. It was like they were teenagers again, nervous and awkward about every movement. Neither of them had been in a meaningful relationship in months, so it was mostly rustiness. But there was also the unacknowledged truth between them that there was great potential for heartbreak. Their love was borne of fear and blood, and it resembled an eggshell: fragile, smooth, beautiful, but all too susceptible to breaking. One fumble by either of them, and it would shatter. So the best thing to do for now was to tread carefully.

Nearly a week had passed, and she was considering sneaking into his bed again (for innocent purposes). He did seem to make the nightmares go away, and the few moments of snuggling on the couch the previous night had been thoroughly enjoyed by both parties. She liked to rest her head in the hollow of his neck, snatching whiffs of his Old Spice-bleach-sweat scent, and he would run his hand softly through her dark hair, occasionally massaging her temples. It felt so heavenly to just to be near him, and she couldn't imagine spending an entire night like that. Permitted, encouraged, to be as close as possible. Not having to endure the longing she had experienced the first night: examining every feature of his rough-hewn face, wishing to stroke his cheek, imagining the feel of his forbidden skin, wrapping her own arms around herself and pretending that they were his. They hadn't even kissed properly yet, but somehow, sleeping in the same bed felt like the next step, especially since they had already done it.

So when he headed up to bed the next night, she switched off _The Closer_ (he was a closet Kyra Sedgwick fan) and followed him, covertly helping him up the stairs. In the hallway, where they typically separated, he kissed her chastely on the cheek and turned to go, but she caught his hand.

"Can I stay with you tonight?"

He paused. "Is this about the nightmares?"

"No! No, I've been sleeping well. I just…want to be with you." The blush crept up her neck and blossomed on her face, staining her cheeks pink in what she hoped was an irresistible fashion.

Relaxing visible, he squeezed her hand. "Sure." He seemed to know that he was her version of a sleeping pill.

She went to fetch her pajamas and brush her teeth, and then tiptoed into his room, where he was already in bed, propped up with a pillow and reading _The New York Times_ with his glasses on. _How scholarly_. The smile that emerged on her face at the sight of him was genuine. It was wonderful to know that she was able to be close to him now, and she took full advantage of that fact, crawling under the covers and pressing boldly against his side, stealing a section of the paper on her way. They were the epitome of a married couple – reading the newspaper together in bed, and it made her smile even broader.

He tired quickly, leaning over to get the light with his good arm after only a few minutes. Once the room was engulfed in darkness, he settled down, adjusting his body to fit hers. _I was right; we fit perfectly together_. She was snug against his chest, his legs tangling with hers, his injured arm resting carefully on her hip. The warmth that radiated off him was delicious. There was nothing sexual about it; she felt purely loved and wanted, which was all she needed.

"Good night, Emily," he whispered, dropping a kiss on the back of her neck.

"Good night, Aaron."

Again, she lay awake for at least an hour, but this time, it was out of happiness. She wanted to savor the moment, drinking in his scent and the feel of his body pressed to hers and the very feeling that rushed through her veins, lifting her higher and higher and reinflating the collapsed, blackened heart that had been poisoning her for so long. And _this_ had to be what flying truly felt like.

**********

They awoke knotted together, their arms and legs mingled in a confused, delighted mess. Her head was tucked under his shoulder, and one of her arms was flung across his stomach. She was perfectly comfortable and would've happily stayed like that for several hours…days…but his shoulder was very obviously hurting him. Both of his arms had somehow wormed around her, which couldn't have been good for his injury.

"Hi," he said drowsily, the pain returning to his eyes. Their noses were millimeters away. Almost brushing, but not quite. "Sorry. I'm not used to sharing a bed anymore."

Her returning smile crinkled the velvety skin around her eyes. "No complaints here." Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she extracted herself from the bed and made her way to his side, ready to help if need be. But his shoulder held out pretty well, as he had been improving drastically over the past few days. In fact, he had regained quite a bit of mobility, which pleased her, although it would be a good month before he could even consider going out in the field.

Breakfast was leisurely. They lingered over coffee and the newspaper, not really saying much. Basking like snakes in the shared glow of simply being together and the sense of sweet freedom that accompanied that. Several times she caught him fixated on her, his impenetrable eyes darting over every inch of her. Quickly, silently, she profiled him. His body was relaxed, angled towards her, a physical sign of the turn their relationship had taken. He still favored his shoulder and often reached for it involuntarily; he was probably still lying about the pain level. His words were no longer clipped, flowing fluidly like water. Judging by the amount he was eating, his appetite had returned, which meant that he was healing and he was beginning to relax. And, most telltale: his foot resting neatly under hers. The simple, tangible contact was overwhelming and pacifying at once. A constant reminder that, to borrow his words, he was there and so was she. Most importantly, they were together.

For the first time in days, he felt well enough to go out after their studious paperwork session. A walk would do them both good, she decided, so they headed out the door with only badges, keys, and phones in tow. As they were with each other in broad daylight and weren't going very far, it wasn't necessary to bring their weapons.

The sunshine felt sinfully good on her pale skin, and she lifted her head to drink in as much warmth as possible. Light fingers came in contact with her downy cheek, and she opened her eyes to find him stroking her face curiously, yet tenderly. Immediately cautious, he dropped his hand, looking away guiltily. She grabbed his hand and squeezed reassuringly. Reaffirming the strange, quixotic bond between them that he was probing.

"It's okay. You don't have to pull away."

"I know," he mumbled. "I only wanted…"

She cut him off with a swift kiss on the cheek. "Relax," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere, you old cripple."

That brought a smile, and he wrapped his good arm around her waist as they resumed their stroll. His behavior had again nudged the profiler in her, though, and frankly, it worried her. Was he really so starved for and yet afraid of physical contact with her. He had seemed perfectly at ease last night. They were constantly touching, mostly initiated by her because she'd noticed that it calmed him ever so slightly. It was as though he needed to confirm her presence, that she was indeed there, loving him, holding out her hand as she mouthed _Come on_ and gestured to the light that was waiting just beyond. He shied away, and she kept coaxing him, begging him silently to let her in. And he seemed to be doing that, little by little. The blood on his hands was being gradually washed, scrubbed away by her. In the process, he was cleansing her as well.

So they ambled along as she mulled that over. They were healing together, arduously, but consistently. That was all she could hope for at this point. The trust would come, but in the meantime, she had to be patient.

They walked, and she loved him quietly, unobtrusively, his arm resting sensitively around her.

**A/N: Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my long absence. Things got really crazy all of a sudden, and fanfiction was the last thing on my mind. But here is a lovely update for you, and I hope you enjoy it.**

**Secondly, I feel like I need to justify Hotch's behavior here. Obviously he's not a timid character, but he really is out of his element here. I think the at-work Hotch and the Hotch-in-a-new-relationship-with-someone-he's-wary-of are going to be very different people. Plus, he is still in a lot of pain, and that would make him different too. I can tell he's out of character, but I hope it's not **_**too**_** much.**

**Thirdly, an insignificant note: in my mind, Emily doesn't have those hideous bangs. I'm sorry, Paget Brewster: you're a gorgeous woman and a terrific actress, but those bangs do **_**not**_** flatter you. I liked her so much better with the early season 3 hair, and that's how I picture her here. It's vain, I know, but that's why you see no mention of her bangs. Just in case you wonder at some point.**

**Lastly – review!**


	13. Chapter 13

_No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence._

--T.S. Eliot

Two weeks elapsed before she knew it. The days passed in a dizzying whirlwind of time spent bantering, bickering, and, yes, cuddling with him. They were closer than she could've ever imagined, and yet she could sense that there were many more hurdles remaining. Firstly, the team. They were already aware of the pseudo-relationship between her and Hotch and were very much involved in his recuperation – Morgan and Rossi had even stopped by separately – but a romantic relationship involving two core team members would add a whole new dimension to team dynamics. What, for instance, would happen on away cases? Neither she nor Hotch were unprofessional enough to assume that they would share a room, but what if they wanted to have a meal on their own? More importantly, most importantly, when bullets started flying (as they invariably would at some point), could he fight the urge to run to her? Could she do the same for him? They would have to. The BAU had a stellar reputation, and they were required to uphold that with their lives, if need be.

Then there was the Strauss question. She was a bitch, no denying it, but anti-fraternization rules were there for a very good reason. It would probably come out eventually, depending on how long the relationship lasted, but Emily was dedicated to this one hundred percent. She had _not_ spent the last three years loving him from afar, only to throw it all away when things became difficult, like a petulant child.

He was beginning to revert back to his pre-divorce self, behaving in his usual serious manner with, thankfully, more than a touch of dry humor thrown in. The space between them no longer tasted of gunpowder or salty tears, but instead coffee, sweet earth, sleep. Familiar, intimate things. When they kissed (their first kiss, in cliché fashion, had occurred in the rain when their walk was interrupted by a summer thunderstorm), it was untainted, free of worry or blood or grief. Only pure happiness lingered, coupled with a feeling of relief that holding back was no longer necessary. The time off was doing wonders for them: erasing just enough the thoughts that were haunting them both. Unfortunately, her leave was nearly over, something he brought up on the last night of her stay.

They were sprawled on the couch with beer bottles and Chinese takeout. Indulging themselves, she told him wryly, before they returned to the daily grind. She expected the conversation to be loaded and little, as the thought of her returning weighed heavily on both of them, but he didn't even pretend to pay attention to _Fight Club_, instead twiddling his fork, lost in thought. After he failed to comment, as he often did, on the fact that Palahniuk should have been a profiler, she poked him with her foot.

"Penny for your thoughts? Or is this one of those _the first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club_ things?"

"You're going back tomorrow?" Well, he knew that, didn't he?

She shrugged anyway. "That's the plan. We're back in the rotation next week, so I figured I'd get a start on the mountains of stuff I've got left to do. But if you need me here…"

"Are you ready? The last few weeks have been difficult."

Rolling her eyes, she leaned over to steal the last egg roll. "I am more than ready, trust me. Living with you, while not easy, has been…eye-opening. To say the least. I think that I'm better off than I was before." He was still not quite there, though. _Something_ was up.

The other shoe dropped at last. "As your supervisor, I want you to see the shrink before you go back."

So _that_ was the anvil he had been saving. She stared at him. Was he _serious_? "Aaron, I'm _fine_. I've adjusted, I've dealt with everything, now all I want is to go back to work." Fuck, why did he act like a child when it came to his psychological well-being, and then treat her like one when it concerned hers?

"It doesn't matter. The rest of the team already had mandatory psych evaluations, no exceptions. Strauss ordered it."

"And you agreed?" The disbelief was evident in her voice. "Hotch, I don't need anyone to tell me that I've been through hell. We all have. But we came through stronger for it."

His tone was controlled, cool, with just a hint of anger at the edges. And he _still_ hadn't looked at her. "Don't fight me on this one, Prentiss. I'll have one too."

She sat up on the couch, leaning forward to show the full extent of her frustration with him at the use of her last name and his refusal to budge. "So you're willing to let a shrink fuck around in your head, but not me?" she snapped. "I'd say those are some ridiculous double standards you've got there. Where's your respect for the team, Hotch? Do you even care? Let us do our fucking jobs!"

He sat up as well, fury written across his face. "Stop right there." The famous Look was in firmly in place and finally directed upon her. "Don't you _dare_ think for even a second that I don't care about this team. The only reason I would ever agree to the evals is to ensure that the mental capacity and health of this team – _my team_ – is high-caliber. Dammit, do you think that I send you all out into the field with a clean conscience? It tears me apart to see what you have to endure. The things this team has seen make me _sick_. Every time JJ hands me a new case file, I wonder: _Is this the one?_ The one that will break Dave, or Morgan, or Reid…or you. I was oblivious to Gideon's trauma because of my personal issues, and after he left, I swore that I was better than that. The team suffered after he left, and I didn't do a damn thing about it. You can't _imagine_ my guilt. It's…crushing. People praise me for doing this job; you get it too, I'm sure. They say that I'm making this world safer for Jack, that I'm a credit to the Bureau and my country. That my son is lucky to have such a _great_ dad."

Astonishingly, nearly inaudibly, he began to weep. The tears glistened in the soft lamp light like tiny crystals, each one stabbing at her heart. He smiled at her sadly, a man resigned to living every day with the weight and magnitude of such horrors. It was a death-bed smile, the smile of a man with days or hours to live. And she, too, began to cry, devastated by his confession and that smile. She reached for his hand, seeking to calm him, but he shook her off, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

"What a fucking lie, right?" he chortled, and she thought that neither of them had found anything more humorless. "People are so idiotic. I mean, who could ever be a damn _hero_ in this job? Nobody ever, ever wins. The victims, the families, the unsubs, us…we all lose in the end. But gosh, we sure do try our little hearts out." The smile was bitter now.

His mock enthusiasm tore at her. He had been bottling this up for so long, and the dam had finally burst, the deluge of hidden feelings and swallowed fears rushing out. Here were the things he hadn't known what to do with, packed carefully away in labeled boxes. Now he was removing them and lining them up for her to examine. Holding them up to the light. Showing her the faded mental photographs and moth-eaten memories that had accumulated inside the walls of his mind.

His face contorted with pain. "We try so hard," he continued, "and it doesn't matter; it's never going to matter. Just – _God_, and it should matter, it should matter more than anything else, but it doesn't. There's always going to be one more Foyet. Another busload of people of me to kill. Another family. One psych eval isn't going to do shit, but it will make me feel like I'm doing one thing right for this team, at least."

And at last, he gave up and allowed himself to be folded into her arms like a child. They cried together, grieving for the nameless things between them. The things that Reid could never quantify – the critical, exposing light of an autopsy table on tender young skin; playgrounds abandoned for years by missing children, feeling empty no matter how many new legs clambered over them; the vast silence that always occupied the plane during the trip home. The very breadth of it. The eyes, always the eyes. The scent of blood and decay that could never be shaken, staying with them long after crime scenes had been left behind. Fear, the way it crawled on their skin.

Love? Perhaps.

Eventually their eyes dried. He apologized, naturally, but she held a commanding finger to his lips.

"Listen to me. I want you to know three things. One: I am going to do everything I can to make sure that you see Jack soon. Tomorrow, if possible. Two: what happened just now? It's good. You're starting to trust me, and even though you're giving me gray hairs in the process, I am ecstatic about it. Truly."

He coughed, burying his swollen face in her dark hair. "What's the third?"

She paused, running her fingers mellifluously over his wound. "I love you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

**A/N: The ending left something to be desired, but I couldn't think of any other way to finish it. Oh well. This is what Emily has been waiting for. He's finally letting her in, bit by bit, painfully, horribly, but he's letting her in, and that's what counts. I thought she would bristle at the implication of the psych eval: that she's not strong enough emotionally. Or, rather, that he needs to **_**know**_** if she's strong enough emotionally because he doesn't trust her to that end. Secondly, he prefers to put himself in the hands of a third party instead of the person he's in love with. However, his reasoning for it explains itself. He's doing it to assuage his guilt, and Emily can understand that.**

**The **_**Fight Club **_**shout-out is entirely due to my passionate love for that movie. And Edward Norton. **

**Chapter 14 is about half-written. Again, I apologize for the long wait. The next chapter should be posted more quickly. Reviews = happiness and quicker updates.**


	14. Chapter 14

_Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable._

--James A. Baldwin

Their goodbyes were fairly subdued. It was so early in their relationship that it would've been improper for her to stay any longer, even though she wanted to. Hotch craved independence, so she had to be willing to give it to him. Even so, she hated to just leave him. A couple of neighbors were going to check on him every day, and she was planning to badger him by phone and text, but it was difficult to adjust to not seeing him daily until he returned to work. Whereas before his injury he had been present in her mind as a small figure overshadowing her thoughts, now he loomed over every action, word, feeling. It was sobering and exhilarating all at once to know that he held such influence with her – and really sexy, if she was being honest. She knew what obsession could do to people, but this was different. Not so much an all-encompassing longing as a niggling, ethereal presence perfuming her mind pleasantly.

She put aside her feelings, though, and kissed him briefly, telling him to call if he needed anything. "Only another month or so, and you'll be back in that power suit."

He grinned. "Do I have to wait that long to see you, too?"

"Of course not! Dinner on Friday? We're not leaving until Monday. Rossi remains elusive about where we're going, but I'm sure that JJ's already got a case picked out."

"Dinner sounds good. By the way, on the case front, Dave already briefed me – there's a serial rapist in Charleston, South Carolina. He faxed the files over yesterday at my request. He didn't want to disrupt your leave, but he thought you should have them sooner rather than later."

"Yeah, because Rossi's thoughtful like that. Come on, I know you wanted to look at them. I'm really sure we'll be raring to have you consult from your sickbed. Is it bad?" Like they had ever been on a _good_ case.

He hesitated. "JJ didn't want to push you too hard. But we're needed there." _So…bad_. The world-weary look was back, along with its favorite companion, evasive answers. She shot him a look, letting him know that she wasn't falling for it. He relented, saying, "He hasn't killed yet, only raped – not that that's any better. But if he devolves…there could be bodies."

"Okay," she sighed. "I need to go; I'll see you Friday."

"Are you going in today?"

"I should. To familiarize myself with the case and get up-to-date with everything. I'm sorry to leave you like this."

"Don't bet," he told her, reaching out to grasp her forearm. "BAU needs you more now than I do."

And that was what greased the cogs of their relationship more than anything else: the understanding that what they did, profiling, was an integral part of who they were. All of her previous boyfriends or lovers had failed to comprehend that, and she had more than a sneaking suspicion that the same fault had divided Haley and Hotch in the end. Profiling was what got her up in the morning; absolute knowledge of what people could do to other people and what she could do to stop it. What they saw on the job made them members of the most exclusive club on Earth, and she would give anything to hand in her membership card. But at the same time, what they saw compelled her to work that much harder so others wouldn't have to see. _That_ was what Haley wasn't able to see in her husband, and while it saddened Emily that the divorce had made him so miserable, if his ex-wife couldn't understand that basic part of his identity, then Haley wasn't worthy of him.

With another quick kiss, she was gone. Back to the BAU.

********

The team was, satisfyingly, over the moon to have her back. Within ten minutes, she already had a lunch date with Garcia and JJ (an offer delivered with more than a few suggestive looks: Hotch would be primary topic, she guessed) to catch up on gossip; a challenge from Morgan for a few brush-up rounds at the shooting range; and a cup of coffee in her hand, courtesy of Rossi. Yes, it was good to be home. Even Reid, wearing a truly heinous sweater vest that belonged in Stephen Hawking's closet or the trash can, gave her a horribly awkward hug and a nice collection of Vonnegut short stories to "restore your former state of semi-happiness." Rossi pursed his lips but wisely remained silent.

Thankfully, her psych eval wasn't until tomorrow. She could only take so much in one day, and JJ provided more than enough by gathering the team immediately for a briefing on the Charleston case. They were officially out of the rotation for almost another week, but the more time spent working on the case at Quantico, the more complete the profile would be when they did arrive. Knowing Rossi, the plane would probably take off a couple of days early anyway.

They settled around the table as Rossi passed out files. The very first picture was a slap in the face: a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties with bruising all over her face, caught in the harsh glow of hospital lights. The resemblance to Emily was missed by no one. Morgan brushed her hand under the table, Reid cut his eyes at Rossi and then looked away, and JJ mouthed _Sorry_ as she pulled up images on the TV monitor. It was inevitable that, sooner or later, they would draw a case especially personal to one of them, so Emily merely accepted it and moved on wordlessly. Better to compartmentalize and get on with things than dwell despondently on the fact that her first case back dealt with victims similar to her.

"There have been a series of rapes in Charleston over the last two months," JJ began, "all involving young, white, brunette, middle-class women with children. All of the rapes have taken place at night, in the homes of the victims. The first victim, Grace Hinkebein: thirty, a stay-at-home mom, raped while the husband and kids were away on a camping trip. Next was Cassandra Moorin, thirty-four, a divorce attorney raped when her child was on an overnight for school. The husband was out-of-town. Lastly, Lauren French. She's a single mom at thirty-eight; husband died last year. She's the only one who was raped with someone else in the home – her three-year-old daughter, McKenzie, was in the room across the hall."

"How far apart were the rapes?" asked Morgan.

"Nearly a month between the first two victims. But Lauren French was attacked only a week after Cassandra Moorin."

"He's accelerating," Rossi mused. "Gaining confidence. How did they describe their rapist?"

JJ rifled through the papers in her file. "That's the interesting part. None of them got a good look at his face – it was dark, obviously, but he was dressed in all _white_. White pants, white collared shirt, white mask, even a white hat."

"That doesn't make sense," said Emily. "I mean, if I were a rapist, I would wear dark colors. It makes you less detectable, for one thing, and it's confusing to the victim. Why wear white?"

She could already see the wheels turning in Reid's head, and sure enough, he spoke up. "White is traditionally considered a color of chastity and purity. Brides wear white at weddings to signify their virginity. Interestingly enough, in eastern Asia, white is also considered a color of death. It could be that by wearing white, he's perverting convention and instead, in his mind, _purifying_ these women. He thinks that they're the ones who are wearing black, not him, and he seeks to rectify that by raping them. Actually, in early Westerns, the 'good guy' typically wore a white hat to signify that he was the protagonist, and the antagonist would wear a black hat. Later on in film history, villains would often dress in all white as a show of power and arrogance. He could be a narcissist: believing himself important enough to wear white."

"And look at this, right here," Rossi said, flipping to the police report on Lauren French. "Look how he subdues the victims. He breaks in, sneaks into the room, holds them at gunpoint and makes them tie the restraints themselves. The only thing he says during the entire attack is: _Do not resist me, or you will know only darkness_."

"_You will know only darkness_," repeated Morgan. "So he considers himself some kind of bringer of light. That would explain the white clothing. But rape as a form of purification?"

"He's violating them, so to speak, with light," Emily suggested.

Morgan considered that, and then tapped the photos of the victims. "He has to be watching them well in advance. No male presence in the homes during all three attacks? That's not coincidence. The rapes are personal. I'd say that he knows the victims."

"He's stalking them," agreed Rossi, "and that means there's a connection between all three women. This guy has some kind of access to them and their schedules, and he has a reason to think that they're unclean. Look for links between the victims, Garcia. In the workplace, common places they frequent, connections with their kids, anything."

The tech nodded. "On it."

"Morgan, Prentiss, I want you on victimology for now. Why these women? And Reid, work on a geographic profile. See if you can find a physical link between the locations. JJ, how much of this has been released already?"

She looked grim. "Enough to do some damage. Charleston LEOs already held a press conference after Cassandra Moorin was raped. With such a specific MO, they knew they were dealing with the same unsub. The details about the stalking and the cases being connected were already released by the time they contacted us."

"_Shit_. Do they know about the white clothing?"

"No. I told them to hold that back."

"Well, that's something. Okay, let's get to work. I want the profile nailed down by the time we get there. And I don't give a damn what Strauss says; we're leaving Saturday. Anything else?"

JJ paused. "The media has a nickname for him already…the Ghost."

**A/N: I think case-writing is maybe my favorite thing ever. Very fun and creepy at the same time. I haven't decided whether or not to write dinner on Friday – there may or may not be cause to do that, if you know what I mean. Let me know what you guys think in a nice review.**

**One disclaimer. I am by no means a profiler, so if the stuff about the Ghost and the significance of white and such seems a little flimsy to you, that's because I'm basically making it all up. Although the part about what white represents in different cultures and in old Westerns is all true. I thought that was pretty interesting – and the kind of thing that Reid would know. **


	15. Chapter 15

_Art is not what you see, but what you make others see._

--Edgar Degas

Friday's dinner was making her more nervous than it should have. They had only been apart for a few days, and already, girlishly, she was anxious about seeing him again. Half a dozen sloppy lists were uncharacteristically scattered around her apartment: internal debates about what to wear, whether she should bring a bottle of wine, how to behave, and so forth. She was jumpy at work, especially after Tuesday's dreaded psych eval.

The shrink was perfectly cordial and forthcoming, of course. Tanya Braun was her name, and she assured Emily that they were in an "absolutely pressure-free environment. I simply want you to answer the questions as honestly as possible." _Yeah, right. You're dying for a bunch of juicy PTSD symptoms, aren't you_?

It was about as much fun as the dentist, the gynecologist, and a cheery visit with Ambassador Prentiss all rolled into one, but Emily gritted her teeth and fake-smiled through it. No, she hadn't been suppressing any feelings of guilt or anger. Suicide and self-injury had never crossed her mind, not once. And why would she be struggling with nightmares or insomnia, Dr. Braun? That was rather preposterous. After all, Emily considered herself a well-adjusted, reasonably happy, determined, independent woman. She didn't need a man to make herself happy, either, if that was what the good doctor was implying. It was all bullshit, and Braun probably knew it, but she couldn't _prove_ it.

Silently vowing to throttle Strauss whenever their next encounter was, Emily finally escaped by fabricating a team meeting that she most definitely could not afford to miss, or her boss would have her head. After all, the BAU never rested. (This was accompanied by an apologetic wink and a heavy what-can-I-do-my-boss-is-an-asshole sigh.) Braun nodded knowingly, informing Emily that "whatever you need, I'll be here to help." _Sure, I'm really going to take you up on that_. She was cleared to return to work, though, so something must have worked, and that was all that really mattered.

And then freedom, sweet freedom! Morgan bitched her out for not confiding in _Tanya_, as he called her, that she was, in fact, madly in love with said asshole boss, but Reid poked holes in that argument by pointing out that Rossi was technically in charge at the moment, and Emily was most definitely not in love with him. The smug bastard himself reminded them of his authority only a few moments later by telling them complacently to get their asses back to work.

It didn't take long for the team to pick up on the undercurrents of fear that were plaguing her. She was restless, unable to sit still, constantly shifting about the bullpen. Some of it was due to Friday's dinner, but the majority was a direct result of their case. The more they worked on the profile, the more their unsub, the Ghost, seemed to slip away, true to his namesake. The case was haunting all of them for a myriad of reasons: Hotch wasn't there, the fallout from the pig farm and Foyet, and the unmistakable resemblance the victims shared with Emily. It was more than that, though. Some cases came on like a sledgehammer, knocking them dizzy with a few well-placed blows. The pig farm had been like that – one look at those shoes and the pigs, and it was enough to make anyone panic.

And other cases…other cases seeped slowly into their pores like noxious gas. Colorless, odorless, tasteless, undetectable, but poisoning them from within. Those were the more dangerous of the two because of the way they took up residence in the heart of the team, and, tumor-like, spread silently, putting down roots and contaminating everything. Once they took hold, there was nothing that could be done to erase them. "Bloody fingerprints on your soul" was the way Rossi had once described it. Foyet had done it to Hotch, and the Ghost could potentially do it to her. Such a case had menaced Rossi for _twenty years_. No one ever spoke of it, but it happened nonetheless. It happened all the time, and always in the way they least expected.

So it was with mingled relief and dread that she left the office on Friday, glad to escape from the ceaseless hold of the Charleston case, but fearing that dinner would do little to ease her rigidity. She drove directly to Hotch's apartment, having changed into a semi-dressy turquoise blouse and a demure black skirt at the office. To his credit, Morgan didn't pester her about her "hot date" as she left. Perhaps the case was getting to him, too.

Purse in hand, she made her way (less than gracefully – heels were something she had never quite mastered) up to his apartment. Judging by meals during cases, his taste in restaurants varied widely, so she had no idea where they were headed. And then the door opened, and it felt _so good_ to see him again, standing there with his understated smile, wearing black pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Like coming home to a place she hadn't even known she'd left. She kissed him lightly, her stomach settling as the nerves vanished. Why had they been there in the first place?

"How are you doing?" she asked, slipping off her shoes.

"Well enough. The pain's gone down a lot. I missed you, though." _Good_. _It wasn't just me_.

"I missed you too. Unfortunately, the Charleston case has been driving me bonkers. This guy is pretty sick."

His eyes darted away from her suddenly. "I told Dave that you would say that. I'm sorry – JJ felt that it was imperative that we take the case."

"I'm not complaining," she protested. "Good God, I want to stop the bastard. Really."

"I know," he told her, leading her into the apartment with one hand. "You'll do your job and get him. I only wish that it wasn't so hard for you."

Narrowing her eyes, she dropped his hand and crossed her arms defensively. "It's not hard for me. I'm used to this, Hotch. Don't treat me like some kind of china doll."

He exhaled, obviously frustrated with the turn the conversation had taken. "I'm sorry. Forget I mentioned it. It's been a stressful week without you, and I'm sick of withering away here."

She smiled at him, empathy flooding her heart. "You're forgiven. Anyway, what's the plan for tonight?"

"Italian, if that's okay with you."

"Perfect. And Aaron?"

"Hmm?"

"Stop burdening yourself. Relax. I can tell that you've been uneasy all week."

He raised his eyebrows. "Profiling me?"

"Never," she teased. "Let's go."

The restaurant was cozy, with dimmed lights and only a few tables. He was more content than he had been in weeks, cupping her hand on the table and using those smoky brown eyes to their maximum capabilities. They both avoided the subject of work, instead talking of books, concerts, movies. Trivial things that she had never spoken about before with him, things that illuminated the hidden, private side of his personality, insignificant tidbits that started to fill in the gaps of her mental picture of him: He loved the ocean, T.S. Eliot poetry, Impressionism, and the Red Sox. He had been to Ireland, and considered it one of the most beautiful places in the world. He despised Ayn Rand, modern art, and laziness. For a time, he had wanted to major in philosophy in college. Failure was his biggest fear. He had truly loved fewer than ten people in his life – Jack was at the top of the list.

But she was one of them, or so she inferred from his fleeting glance at her.

The portrait that she sketched of him was that of a compelling, anguished, capricious man. One who loved so deeply that he bled incessantly. Someone who could not, would not ever be happy with mediocrity or ignorance. Haley's shoes were big ones to fill, but his ex-wife had failed him in the end. She, Emily, would not do the same, that much she vowed. It would not do to let him suffer alone, forever drowning in dark water that no one could breach.

The drive back to his apartment was infused with melancholy, the air swirling in eddies of misery. She was leaving for a case that would almost undoubtedly leave a permanent mark, and he would remain behind, unable to comfort her in her time of need. Dinner had been lighthearted, but her imminent departure dominated their thoughts now. As their personal relationship had changed, their work relationship would have to shift in accordance. He had to trust her enough to do her job without interference from him, and they were both struggling with that fact.

She was braced for a final kiss and embrace, but instead, he asked her to stay the night, the look on his face so plaintive that she couldn't say no. Her bag was already packed and in the car in case Rossi had decided to leave early, so she stole a pair of sweatpants and a Springsteen concert shirt from him, determined to squeeze every drop of happiness out of the night. They lay together in the darkness for a long time, not really saying anything. He stroked her hair again and again, pressing his lips to her collarbone occasionally. It was better to let him grapple with his inner quandary than to interfere, so she merely lay there, savoring the feel of his hand and wishing that there was some way she could help.

**A/N: Bleh. I lost steam around the middle, as you can probably tell. I was all pumped up to write dinner, and it didn't work out that way I had planned. By the way, I made up all of the personal stuff about Hotch, so if it contradicts canon, that's why. I never remember unimportant biographical details, which is a terrible thing as a writer. But that's the way the cookie crumbles.**

**The quote at the beginning is meant to reflect Emily's idea of painting a mental portrait of Hotch during their dinner. She's learning about him through both inconsequential and hugely important details that he shares with her, and consolidates them all into the picture of the man that she thinks he is. Not as **_**he**_** sees himself, but as he makes **_**her**_** see him (sometimes unconsciously). In other words, he is not the heinous person that he thinks he is.**

**Okay, stupid explanation. But I love that quote and I love Degas, so it's staying.**

**Next chapter will deal with the case. It should be up in 2-3 days. Review!**


	16. Chapter 16

_The cruelest lies are often told in silence_.

- Robert Louis Stevenson

The plane ride to Charleston was short, and as they had spent a week on the profile, there wasn't much need to review any further as a group. Everyone splintered off to nap or get their mindset in the right place – easier said than done. Emily popped in her earbuds, turning on some White Stripes to get her into an ass-kicking mood. She had to decline politely Reid's invitation for a poker game, knowing that he would beat the shit out of her.

It was strange to look up and not see Hotch bent over his files, taking last minute notes in his blunt, spiky handwriting, pure concentration impressed on his face. It had been even more bizarre to roll groggily out of bed that morning and leave him behind. Just before they had drifted off last night, he had made her promise not to do anything risky. The chauvinistic alpha-male side of his personality was only rearing its ugly head because of his fears – did he really think that he could be her personal bodyguard at all hours? – but some part of her usually feminist self appreciated the gesture all the same.

Rossi divvied up assignments as soon as they began to descend. "Reid, Morgan, go to the precinct and see if they've made any more progress on this guy. JJ, I want a press conference this afternoon for damage control. No more fuckups with this case. Prentiss, you're with me to interview the victims and check out the homes. The crime scenes have been processed, but I want a look at the layout of the homes. We'll be presenting our profile at four in the precinct. Has Garcia found our connection between the victims yet?"

"No," Morgan said. "She's still looking. Nothing on the financials or phone records."

"Okay. Let's hit the ground running. The unsub's going to choose his next victim soon – I'm thinking within a day or two, if he hasn't already. I don't want the bastard to get that far." They all nodded, determination clouding their eyes. _This guy is going down_.

The SUVs were waiting for them at the tarmac, as was their Charleston contact, Chief of Police Lewis Sackfield.

"Pleased to meet you," Sackfield said, offering his hand to Rossi. "Thanks for coming. This has been tough on all of us."

Rossi ran through introductions quickly, letting Sackfield know what the game plan was and instructing him to take Reid and Morgan to the precinct. The group splintered, with Morgan promising to call if anything came in from Garcia.

Thankfully, Rossi drove. The nerves had returned, and she didn't think that she could handle being behind the wheel right now. It was off-putting to know that one case could have such a profound impact on her: Her record was stellar, and she was known for being cool and level-headed in any situation. It didn't appear as though that was going to happen here. The coil of fear and anxiety in her stomach was foreign to her. And she knew that if Hotch was here, she would feel better. He wasn't, though, so she _had_ to compartmentalize and get on with things.

Grace Hinkebein's Battery Park residence looked like the last place a rapist would choose to attack a victim. The beautiful antebellum home was imposing, certainly, and the neighborhood was affluent. _Still, it can happen to any woman, anywhere_.

Mr. Hinkebein answered the door, nodding ever so slightly at Rossi's stoic appearance and then visibly flinching at Emily. It could only be expected that the resemblance would be noted by family members, so she took no notice of it. Craig Hinkebein, as he introduced himself, was a handsome man, and about six three and at least two hundred pounds – no wonder the unsub had chosen to attack when the husband was away.

"Mr. Hinkebein, we're from the FBI. I'm SSA Rossi, and this is SSA Prentiss. Thanks for allowing us to come."

"How is your wife?" Emily asked.

Hinkebein massaged his temples, dropping his gaze to the floor. "She's been…in pretty bad shape, if you want the truth. Grace isn't a weak woman, but she hasn't been the same since…the incident. I had to hire a nanny for the kids because she couldn't handle them all day. And she won't wear white. God, if I had known that she was at risk for something like this…."

Rossi flicked his eyes at Emily briefly.

"You can't blame yourself for this, Mr. Hinkebein," she said gently. "We believe that this man watched the house. It wasn't random. Please, may we talk to your wife?"

"They already talked to her," Hinkebein protested. "I don't want her to go through this again. They wrote it all down – just look at that instead."

"We look at things a little differently than the police," stated Rossi. "We're profilers, which means that we study human behavior. Anything Mrs. Hinkebein noticed during the attack, even the most insignificant details, could help us catch this man. Things that she may not have told the police."

Hinkebein exhaled, fiddling with his wedding ring. "Fine. Please, don't spend too long with her. She's just a mess right now."

"Of course."

Grace Hinkebein was flung across the sofa, wearing dark yoga pants and a black sweater. Judging by the piles of books and magazines on the coffee table, the poor woman had spent quite a bit of time there in the time since her rape. Her face was gaunt and free of makeup, the skin sagging over the bones in a way that made her look ten years older. No food was in sight, save an untouched cup of tea on the floor, and Emily guessed that PTSD-induced anorexia was to blame for the weight loss.

As they approached, Grace sat up quickly, putting a hand to her forehead. "Can I help you?" Her hands appeared bloodless and trembled slightly as she smoothed her sweater, the pale fingers fluttering nervously over nonexistent creases.

Emily introduced herself and then Rossi, explaining their purpose in the most comforting way possible. She seated herself next to Grace on the sofa, intentionally angling her body towards the other woman to provide support. Rossi took the armchair on the other side of the coffee table so that the male presence in the room would be more subdued. He subtly shook his head at Craig Hinkebein when the other man hovered behind Grace, dismissing him. The last thing they needed was the husband jumping in to protect his wife, thus obstructing the channels of communication being established.

"Mrs. Hinkebein, can you think of anyone in your life who might have a reason to do this to you?" Emily asked, keeping her voice controlled.

Grace shook her head, her lips compressing into a faint line, her fingers lacing together briefly and coming apart. "I don't work. All of our friends are married, most with kids…there's no one. I told the police all this."

"We know," Rossi said with unexpected compassion. "But we've got some other questions. Do you know Cassandra Moorin or Lauren French? The other two victims."

Again, Grace shook her head. "I've never met them."

"Have your children mentioned anyone new in their lives?"

"Not – not that I can think of." Grace looked down at her hands, pulling her eyes away from Rossi's unforgiving stare.

"Has anything major happened to you within the past year or so? Death in the family, serious illness…anything?" _Where are you going with this, Dave_?

"My father died a year and a half ago, but that's it."

"What about…someone new that you met?"

There was only a fraction of hesitation in Grace Hinkebein's voice, but it was there, and it made all the difference. "No. No one." And now Emily understood what Rossi's line of thinking was. She looked at him for confirmation, and he inclined his head slightly, and then shook it nearly imperceptibly, telling her not to ask the crucial question.

They threw in a few more mundane questions, but Grace and Craig's behavior told them everything they needed to know. As soon as the interview was over, they thanked the Hinkebeins and hurried out of the house. Only after they were in the car did she voice her suspicions:

"She's having an affair. And the husband knows something's wrong."

Already starting the engine, Rossi said, "She wasn't wearing her wedding ring, and she kept looking at her hands. He played with his ring when we talked to him. They didn't look at each other once during the entire conversation."

"This could be why the unsub thinks she's impure. He knows about the affair."

"Not the husband. He wouldn't be so indirectly accusatory. Someone else knows. I want to find out if Cassandra Moorin was cheating on her husband, too. It could explain the link."

She frowned. "Lauren French's husband is dead. She wouldn't fit the pattern."

Rossi cast his eyes at her as they pulled out onto the road. "Then she's the one we have to know more about."

**A/N: Many apologies for my long absence. So many things cropped up at once that I couldn't handle them all, and fanfic fell by the wayside. **

**So…any guesses as to what's going on with Lauren French? And how would The Ghost know about these affairs? You'll have to wait to find out.**


	17. Chapter 17

_A lot of people are tired around here, but I'm not sure they're ready to lie down, stretch out and fall asleep._

--Jim Jones

South Carolina was hot and frustrating. They had been working for the better part of the day to figure out what the connection to Lauren French was, and the presentation of their profile was not going well. The Charleston LEOs did not appreciate big bad FBI agents coming into their jurisdiction and taking over, even though Sackfield had invited them, and there was audible grumbling throughout. One particularly disgruntled officer had even gone as far as to imply that Emily and JJ didn't really know what they were doing, and perhaps they had better leave the _real_ detective work up to the men. They all bristled at that comment, but Emily managed to check her temper, reminding herself that one sexist cop was less important than a rapist loose on the streets. Rossi reprimanded the idiot, and they got on with things.

"We're looking for a white male in the age range of the victims, mid-twenties to early forties," announced Rossi. "He's a narcissist with a God complex, and he's familiar with the area. He's been watching these women closely and has remained undetected so far, which signifies knowledge of the city."

Morgan stood, discreetly moving into the out-of-line officer's field of vision. "He believes that these women are impure in some way, and because he's a narcissist, he thinks that by raping them, he's cleansing them. This is a man that's overly confident in his life. He's in a job that affords him some power over people. He's average-looking, even attractive, and he is extremely courteous. Southern charm – the perfect gentleman."

"But when he comes across a woman in his life that, in his mind, is less than ideal, he snaps," said Emily. "A woman that smokes, or drinks excessively, or is promiscuous. He'll behave rudely, almost violently, towards these women, implying that they're not worthy of him. He's not able to sustain relationships, or even have them, because his expectations are so unreachable. He may not even desire a romantic relationship because he sees himself as better than that: not needing someone else to complete him."

"He most likely picked up the idea of the 'perfect woman' from his father," Reid said. "His mother was probably unfaithful in her marriage, and his father taught him that this was unacceptable, that a man should be respected. He waits until the husbands of these women are gone to attack. He's punishing their wives for them. Religion figured heavily into this, so he'll be a devout church-goer."

"We think that Grace Hinkebein was having an affair," stated Rossi bluntly, "and this unsub found out about it somehow. Raping her was a form of punishment and purification for her wrongdoing."

"One more thing," said Morgan. "He isn't going to stop. He's finding these women somehow, and he'll keep finding them and raping them."

The heavy determination that had weighed on the team for the last week now manifested itself on the faces of everyone in the room, and the squad got to work immediately as the profile presentation ended.

Morgan gripped Emily's elbow, guiding her to a semi-secluded corner of the room. "You okay? That officer was way out of place."

She shook him off, frustrated that he didn't trust her to handle it on her own. "Jesus, Morgan, I'm fine. It happens, and I'm a big girl. So is JJ. Let me be."

The concern stemmed from the pressure of the last few weeks, and she appreciated it, she really did, but it was unnecessary. Foyet's actions weren't going to cloud her judgment when it came to work. As much as she wanted Hotch by her side, he wasn't there, so she had to suck it up and move on. She didn't tell this to Morgan in words, but he understood, because he had been there himself. After all, they were _finejustfine_. Weren't they?

Still, she ducked into the bathroom a few minutes later and pulled out her phone to shoot Hotch a quick text. A message was already waiting for her, sent several hours earlier, and her mouth twitched at his thoughtfulness.

_How's it going_?

_Just fabulous_, she typed back. _Already pissed off one LEO. Hopefully I'll break the record for one case – what is that, four, in Texas last year_?

His response came immediately, and it was comforting to know that he missed her enough to have his phone right at hand.

_If it's really a problem, tell Dave. There's a line between pride and stupidity._

_I know. We've had something of a breakthrough, too. The first victim was having an affair, and Rossi thinks that's the connection._

_Interesting. How would the unsub know that_?

_That's the next step. Have to go. I'll call you later. Miss you._

She very nearly typed 'love you', but restrained herself.

_Stay safe. I don't like this guy's MO._

The team was already seated around the provided table, bouncing theories around with Garcia on video feed. JJ looked up as Emily entered, making eye contact to check that everything was okay. Emily flashed a quick smile as she made a beeline for the coffee to reassure her friend, and then slipped into place beside Reid.

"What have we got?" she asked, jumping right into the conversation.

"Pretty good evidence of an affair," said Morgan. "Several meals at high-end restaurants while Craig Hinkebein was out of town, and one weekend stay at a hotel in Myrtle Beach."

"Garcia," Rossi said thoughtfully, "is there any record of therapy, or marriage counseling?"

The tech tapped away at her keyboard, pulling up the Hinkebeins' financial records. "Nothing."

Emily raised her eyebrows. "You're thinking that she went to see someone about her affair?"

"If all of these women confided in the same therapist about their issues, that could be the connection," agreed JJ. "Trouble is, there's no record that _any_ of them went to therapy or something similar."

"Actually, that's not true," Garcia corrected. "Lauren French is in a single parent's support group at her parish."

Reid shook his head. "The other two women aren't single parents. It doesn't fit."

"Let's keep working," Rossi said, tapping the table with his pen. "Go over everything again. Something will click eventually. We're going to get this guy, and I want it to be sooner rather than later."

***********

Another city, another case, another depressing hotel. Theoretically, they were all used to it, but the starkness of the neatly made-up bed, turned-down sheets, individually wrapped soaps still caught her by surprise. She wasn't really one for knickknacks, but the complete lack of homely touches unnerved her. Crime scene photos, currently fanned out on the ugly bedspread, only added to the gloom. The greasy stench of leftover Thai takeout from the team dinner wafted throughout the room, and her bag was thrown carelessly on the floor, clothes tumbling out. She was lying on the carpet, her feet propped up on the side of the bed and her arms crossed over her stomach. Her phone rested inches away, beckoning temptingly. Talking to him was the only thing she wanted to do, to confess how anxious it made her to be miles away from him. Earlier, she had caught herself glancing around unconsciously for his dark head bent over case files, fingers drumming on the desk, pencil in hand, only to realize that he was, of course, not there. Living with him had made her unnervingly aware of his absence.

But it was already eleven, too late for both of them. As long as she was awake, she _should_ be working on victimology, as she was sure he would be doing, if he were on the case. And yet it was so easy to just lie there in a hazy, exhaustion-induced stupor, thinking of the last night she had spent with him.

Her phone rang suddenly, jarring her from her reverie. She snatched for it blindly. "Hello?"

"Emily? It's me."

His voice washed over her pleasantly, the familiar inflections easing the flutters of panic in her stomach. She sat up properly. "Why aren't you in bed? It's late."

"I wanted to check in on you. You never called me."

That was true. "We didn't wrap up until about half an hour ago."

"I was worried about you." This forthright admission of emotion dug at her slightly, heartrending contentment that he was being honest wending its way through her stress.

"Thanks, but I'm coping. It's just tough, not having you here." It was lovely, really, to have a sincere conversation with him about their mental states.

"I know," he said gravely. "I'll let you get some sleep. I know you need it."

Also true, but she wanted to hear his voice for just a little while longer. "Hold on. How are – "

A tap at the door interrupted her, and she whispered an apologetic goodbye, cursing herself for not calling earlier. Any reason the LEOs would have for waking them up at this time would have to be good.

Opening the door to the extent allowed by the chain lock, she found Rossi waiting on the other side.

"We've got another victim," was all he said.

Thirty-three year old Alanna Huff was a gorgeous woman. She was tall, at nearly six feet, brunette, and fit, with a runner's physique. Unfortunately, she had also been terrorized and raped by the Ghost.

"Identical MO," muttered Rossi as he entered the hospital with Emily. The rest of the team was back at the precinct, working with Garcia on Alanna's records. "She's had her rape kit already and gave a statement to the LEOs. I want you on her about a possible affair."

"Husband?" she inquired out of the corner of her mouth. They flashed their badges at the head nurse, who gave them directions to Alanna's room.

"He was on a road trip with his college buddies to Florida for fishing. He'll be coming in within the next few hours. No kids," he added, answering Emily's next question in advance. "Go easy on her, but we need to know if she was cheating on her husband."

She nodded, steeling herself. Interviews with rape victims were never easy, but Alanna had been attacked only a few hours ago, and the pain would be fresh. "Why me?"

"You were good with the Hinkebeins, so I want you here to talk to Alanna."

Coming from Rossi, that was like a gold star. She swallowed her doubts and trailed him into Alanna Huff's hospital room.

**A/N: Sorry about the wait - I was training with my athletic team. But here's a lovely update for you, and I hope you enjoy it. **

**Also, for the sleuths out there…if you read between the lines in this chapter, you can figure out what the connection is…and maybe even how the unsub is finding these women? I don't know. It's hard for me to tell as the author. But I did drop a few hints….**


	18. Chapter 18

_Another religion turned against itself, another edifice constructed by the human mind, decimated by human nature..._

--Arundhati Roy

It was strange, really, how hospital beds seemed to minimize everyone. Blur the edges so that pale, battered skin melded right into the fluorescent halo cast by the lights. And it wasn't only the bed's occupant: Those near enough took on some of the suffering as well in their anxiety, lessening the burden for their loved one. As they kept vigil over the injured and dying, they served as a vessel for pain. Alanna Huff's husband wasn't there yet, but the woman was already searching for him unconsciously, her eyes flicking up at any sign of movement from the hospital corridor beyond.

It was impossible not to recall the last time Emily had been in a hospital room, because, of course, she had been at his side then, gripping his hand and trying to express in behavior what she couldn't say in words. She had been the almost-loved one, not the agent. It struck her now, how she must have looked to the team or the nurses or even passersby – someone keeping watch over the man she loved, because that was exactly what she had been doing. The only difference had been that Hotch had been unwilling, unable to allow her to take on any of his pain. As usual, he had suffered in silence.

She wanted to linger in the past, to recall in sharp clarity what had passed between them during her last hospital visit. But her training took over, dragging her back to the present. Alanna Huff was the patient, not him, and she needed Emily's full attention now, no matter what memories were swimming through the room.

Rossi, displaying an unusual amount of tact, let her take the lead. He sat back as she guided Alanna through a mental reenactment of the attack. For a woman who had just been raped, she was remarkably calm, probably due to shock. Nevertheless, Alanna described the Ghost's MO perfectly, her body clenched rigidly throughout the interview. Emily had expected some outpouring of emotion, no matter how small, as was typical with rape victims, but Alanna held steady, answering every question thoroughly.

Now for the more delicate inquiries. With a gentle nod from Rossi, Emily wet her lips slightly and smiled encouragingly at Alanna.

"We – we need to know if there's been any disturbance in your life recently."

Alanna blinked twice, the corners of her mouth tightening. "Such as?"

There wasn't any good way to say it. "An affair, perhaps."

No response, only a narrowing of the eyes. But that was enough.

"There's something, Alanna, we know there is," Emily pressed. "You're hurting now, inside and out, but we have to know. We'll get closer to this guy with any information that you can give us."

Alanna bit down hard on her lip, then seemed to give in. "Not – not an affair. But there was one night. Patrick was out of town, and I went out on my own….It was just one time. A mistake. I didn't even know the guy." She looked at both of them earnestly, imploringly. "I was drunk. I never go out normally, but I've felt so – trapped lately with Patrick. He's always traveling. I only wanted to relax."

Emily took her hand without hesitation. "It's okay. No one's judging you. Did you tell anyone about this? When did it happen?"

The taut lines on Alanna's face crumpled like a balled-up piece of paper. "It was…a couple of weeks ago," she admitted, guilt evident on her face. "But the man…tonight…was completely different, I swear. I didn't know him….I couldn't stop him…."

And now she began to cry without abandon, the first sign of emotion all night. Tears coursed down her cheeks, but she brushed them away weakly before Emily could.

"I'm sorry," Alanna hiccupped. "You're t-trying to ask questions, and I'm a wreck. I n-never thought anything like this would ever h-happen to me…." She dissolved into tears, unable to say anything more.

Empathy flooded into Emily as she sat there holding Alanna's hand, for both of them seemed to be cast from the same mold: strong, independent women who were breaking down as everything around them fell apart, thinking that any display of emotion was a sign of effeminate weakness. Rossi left the room quietly, and Emily was grateful that he understood that Alanna was more likely to speak frankly without a male in the room.

After five minutes and about half a box of Kleenex, Alanna seemed to have cried herself out. She pushed herself up in the bed and sipped at the water Emily offered.

"Is there anyone who could know about this?" asked Emily.

Alanna's forehead creased in thought. "Patrick doesn't. I was alone that night. I haven't even told any of my friends. I don't…I don't think so."

"You're sure?"

The other woman paused momentarily. "I did….You have to understand, I'm a lapsed Catholic. We don't go to church. Patrick's an atheist, but I just felt so guilty about doing this to him. There's a church that I go to sometimes…just to pray. And…and…I haven't confessed since I was a child. It was the only thing I could think of to do."

"You confessed to a priest?" Excitement surged in her stomach, but she tamped it down.

"Yes. Just once. I'm sorry, but is this important? I…I don't like thinking about what happened."

"It's crucial. You're doing great – please continue," said Emily. She leaned forward, making eye contact with Alanna. "You confessed to the priest about this night. What did he say to you? Did you recognize his voice?"

Alanna shook her head as her face contorted again with the onset of tears. "I didn't know him," she moaned. "The only thing he said…he said that God knew what was in my heart."

Emily inhaled sharply. "You're sure?" _If it's true…there'll be hell to pay._

"I – I think so. I thought it was odd that he didn't say anything else."

"Okay. Alanna, thank you so much. This is exactly what we needed." She clasped the other woman's hand, feeling the cold metal of Alanna's wedding ring sting her fingers. _Tangible infidelity_, she thought wryly. _She hasn't been wearing her wedding ring while her husband is away. _"Please get some rest. Your husband will be here soon."

She was nearly out of the room when Alanna's voice, thin, wavering, reached her.

"Emily?"

She turned.

"Do you believe in God?"

Pause. "I don't know. Sometimes."

When she spoke again, Alanna's voice was that of a child's.

"I don't think I can anymore. Not after this."

**A/N: Many apologies for my absence and for the disjointed feel of this chapter. It's been a rough couple of months for me and I think it's reflected in my writing….but as always, please read and review.**

**Also, I have a new Hotch-centric one shot up, so please go check that out too! mysticlake**


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